War Verse EDITED BY FRANK FOXCROFT ^1 NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1918, by THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY Fifth Printing To F. R. F. PREFACE This is by no means the first collection of poems of the great war; and it is certain that it will not be the last. If it has one outstanding characteristic which dis- tinguishes it from other collections, it is that the material for it is not the result of a quest among volumes of verse, and only to a slight degree is it the work of the recog- nized poets. It owes its origin to the fact that the Editor has been a close reader of the English journals, magazines and reviews since August, 1914, and has been increasingly impressed with the fine quality of the war verse con- tributed by writers unknown or little known. The spirit rather than the form of this verse carries its appeal to the reader. It is not the work of professional verse writers who have seen in the events of the war stirring and timely literary material ; but, to a large extent, it is the spontaneous expression of sincere feeling, — the feel- ing of the soldier in the trenches, waiting for the order to go " over the top " the next morning, and thinking of home, of England, of Oxford, or of the crocuses of Not- tingham, or the feeling of the wounded man in the hos- I>ital or of the nurse who cares for him. In not a few instances, the jjoems, when printed, have borne, under the name r)f the writer, the inscrijjtion " Killed in action, ," which has given ihe lines the peculiar poignancy i)i a message from a man who has fought his last fight, and has done it without fear or faltering. V I vi PREFACE Regarded merely as verse, some of the poems by little- known writers in this collection rise to as high a level as the writing of the recognized poets; regarded as the expression of true feeling, they often rise much higher. It would be presumptuous to describe this volume as an anthology. That term would imply research, orderly arrangement, classification. It has seemed to the Editor more suitable to present these poems without explanations or auy definite grouping. The verses are sometimes light and gay, more often serious, but always they ring true. Frank Foxcroft. INDEX TO TITLES A. B. V •• A Merry Heart Goes All THE Day " . Abi, Viator Admiral Dugout After- Days All Ihis is Ended All's Well ! Amazons, The . America at St. Paul America Comes In Anxious Dead, The Any Soldier Son to Hi Mother Al'OCALYPSE, An Armed Liner, The Attila Back to London : A Poem of Leave Ballad of the "Eastern Cr(j\vn," The Battle Before Battle Before Marching, and After Bel(;ium " Bells o" Banff, The" . Birds F^lit Unafraid, The Boat-Race Day, 191 5 Bridge IUilders, The BurnsH Merchant Service, 191 5 Broken Soldier, The But a Short Time to Live Call, The Called Back .... Call of England, The . Call to Arms in Our Street, The Carol FROM Flanders, A (1914) Casualty List, The . Chalk and Flint y?. V. C. Fox Sill ah Eric Chi I III tin Rupert Brooke F. W. Boiiniiilon Richard A. Crouch Margaretta Byrde Klaxon John McCrae N. G. H. . Edward Shillito . H. Sinalley Sarson G. R. Glasgozu . Sergeant Joseph Lee C. Fox Smith Wilfrid Wilson Gibson Habberton Lulham Thomas Hardy . H. D. Rawnsley Neil Muiiro Herbert Trench . Evelyn Sinitns C. Fox Sntifli Katharine Jynan Leslie Coulson F. W. Bourdillon . Orellius Owen Seaman W. M. Letts Frederick Niven . W. L. 74 vn Vlll INDEX TO TITLES Chant OF Empire, A Chaplain to the P'orces . Charing Cross . Chivalry of the Sea, The Christ in Flanders Clerk, The Crocuses at Nottingham (From a Trench) Cross in Flanders, A Dawn .... Dead, The Dea*to the Living, The Death and the Flowers Devon Men Dies Irae .... yames Rhoades . VV. M. Letts Marian Allen Robert Bride^es . L. iV. f . B. H. M. Hetherington G. Rostrevor Hamilton P. S. M. A. E. Murray Laurence Binyon . Eden Phillpotts . B. H. W. '. '. 37 8( 39- 174 7« 264 1 98 43 27 284 44 277 4S 92 X Epiphany Vision (In the Ward) Euthanasy Everlasting Arms, The Faithful Comrade, The Farewell . Farewell to Anzac Flagrante Bello . Flanders 1915 . " For a Scrap of Paper ' For the Red Cross . For Thee They Died From Bosrah . German Prisoners . Gifts of the Dead . God's Hills f jOds of War . (ioLD Stripes ,-Gkave in Flanders, A Gray Gauntlet Gkeat Guns of England, The Guards Came Through, The Guns in Sussex, The Half a Score o' Sailormen . Heart-Cry, The He is Dead Who Will Not Fight Mary Adair- Mac donald 249 R. H. Law . . .282 A. G. Pry s- Jones . 50 P. y. Fisher Hetiry Newbolt C. Fox Smith K. C. Spiers Margaret Sackville Paul Hyacinth Loyson (Tramlated hy Sir James Eraser) Owen Seaman John Drinkwaier Beatrice Allhusen Sergeant Joseph Lee Habberton Lulham Edzvard Melbourne A. E. . Florence A. Vicars Lord Crewe Ehnina Atkinsoit Lord Dunsany Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Sir Arthur Con an Doyh C. Fox Smith F. IV. Bourdillon Julian Greiifill . 164 III 153 5 149 179 255 42 182 168 292 215 68 127 91 46 204 3 31 48 13c 15c INDEX TO TITLES IX He Prayed .... Helpi.ng ■' Hey ! Jock. Are Ye Glad Ye Listed? " , His Majesty's Mine-Sweei'ers Home at Last .... Hy.mn of Love, A (An Answer to tlie " Hynui of Hate ") ^' Have a Rendezvous with Death N England N F" LANDERS FIELDS N Last Year's Camp N THE Morning N Ti.ME ok War N War .... N War Time NN o' THE Sword, The : A Song of Youth and War NWARD Clarion, The It Cannot Be . King's Highway, The Kitchener's March La.ment Fro.m the Dead, A Laurel and Cypress " Leave Her, Johnnie ! " " Le PoiLU DE Carcassonne Life's Favorite Litany in War Ti.me Little Old Road, Ihe LiTTi.F Peoples, The LiTiLE Ships. The Living Line, The London Trocjps Ix)ne Hand, The Lone Woman, The . Loo.M, The Lost Land, A : To Germany L<^)UVAIN .... Lullahy. a . . . Mat. PIES in I'icardy March, The Make. Liheri'm . Martyred Natkjn, The . IV. M. Letts 167 P. B 107 Neil Munro 165 R. 0' I). Ross-Lezuin . 129 G. A". Chesttrtoii 65 Richard Hope, Lieut., R. N. . 228 Ahiti Seeder May O' Rourke . Jo/ut McCrae Mary Adair- Mac donah Klaxon Ltsbia Tlianet Ivan Adair Katharine Tynan IVallace Bertram Nich ols F. E. Maitland . Henry Newbolt . A. J.B.. . W. E. K. . J. Napier Milne . C. Fox Smith Alfred Cochrane . J. VV. A. . Gertrude Vaut^han B. Paul Neuman Harold Be^fiie C. Fox Smith Robert A. Christie y. H. Kniijht-AdA'in Laurence Binyon . G. R. Glasgow . Tipttca y. C. Sguirr J/itity Van Dyke It: //. Gadsdon . INDEX TO TITLES Mater Dolorosa Men Who Man, The Merchantmen . "Missing" Missing . . • MoRiTURi Te Salutant My Son Naval Reserve, The New Heaven New Mars, The No Man's Land Non-Combatants North Sea Ground, The Not with Vain Tears Nurse, The Nurses, Their . Old Soldier, The . Old Women On Patrol. To On Patrol — 1797 Open Boat, The "Orion's" Figurehead AT Whitehall, The " Our Annual" Our Fighting Men . Oxford RevisitedinWarTime Paris Again . . . Passing-Bell, The . Patrol, The Peace .... Pipes in Arras (April, 1917) Pity Of It, The " Poor Old Ship ! " . Portsmouth Bells . Prayer Before War Prayer in Time of War Processional . Pro Patria Quartermaster, The queenslanders " Real Presence " . Red Poppies in the Corn Wi/liam Watson C. Fox Sinith P. H. B. L. Ada Tyrrell Evelyn Underhill Katharine Tynan Florence Earle Coates J. H. Knight-Adkin Evelyn Underhill Rupert Brooke W. H. O. '. '. Katharifie lynan Klaxon C. Fox Smith Klaxon Ella Fuller Mail land Tertius Van Dyke Walter Sichel J. H. Knight-Adkin Rupert Brooke Neil Munro Thomas Hardy . C. Fox Smith 'W. G. Hole E. Nesbit . Theodore Maynard Owen Seaman Klaxon Will H. Ogilvie Ivan Adair W. Campbell Galraith C. M. G. INDEX TO TITLES XI Reported Missing Khei.ms Catheoral Road, The St. Ol'en in Picardy Salonika in November . i5i:AKCH-LlGHTS, ThE Sedan .... Sekiua to the Hohenzollerns (August. 1915) . Sky Signs Smael Crafi' . . . Soldier of the South, The Soldier's Litany, A Soldier, The . " Somewhere in France " Song of the Bt)MHARD, The Song of the Soldiers Song of the Zeppelin " Soil, OF A Nation. The " Spires of Oxford, The . Sportsmen in Paradise . Subalterns : A Song of Oxford Test of Batti,e, The " iHAT Have No Doubts " " They Also Serve " Three Lads, The To A Skylark Behind Our Trenches .... To A Soldier in Hospital To All Our Dead . To America. On Her First Sons Fallen in the Great War To England .... To (]reat Britain To " Hi.M That's Awa'" To King George To THE Memory of Field- Marshal Earl Kitchener To THE Memory of Fiei.d- .Makshal Eakl Roberts . A. G. Kecmm McLandbiirt^Ji W ihon Siegfried Sassoo/t, B. E. F. Brian Hill Alfred Noye$ Hilaire Be Hoc Cecil Chesterton . Klaxon C. Fox Smith Georg^e Greenland Richard Ralcit^li, 2il Lieut.. O. and B. L.I. Rupert Brooke yohn Hogben Thomas Hardy Violet D. Chapman Owen Seaman IV. M. Letts Tipuca Mildred Huxley . Owen Seaman Klaxon Elizabeth Fomian Chandler E. de S. IV. M. Letts Lucy Masterman E. M. Walker . Francis Coutts H. IK R awns lev Mrs. J. O. Arnold Sirdar Daljit Sini^h, C S. L . Owen Seaman Owen Seaman 245 9(3 227 235 2S1 299 258 242 243 14 273 296 71 66 251 236 109 246 58 197 209 123 247 80 169 116 184 113 230 49 125 171 219 103 290 Xll INDEX TO TITLES To THE Men Who Have Died FOR England Toll-Payers, The Twenty-Two / Unmentioned in Dispatches "V. A. D." V. A. D Veteran, The . Voice OF Rachel Weeping, The Voices, The Volunteer War War Risks . . Watchmen of the Night Wk Hope to Win " When There is Peace" "Where Are You Going, Great-Heart?" Where the Four Winds Meet " Whose Debtors We Are Wif'b of Flanders, The Wind in the Trees, The Wireless .... Woman's Toll, The Women to Men . . Alison Lindsay Mary Adair-Macdotiald Beatrice Cregan . Herbert Asqxiith Florence Earle Coates C. Fox Sitiith Cecil Roberts Austin Dobson Austin Dobson yohn Oxc7iham . Geoffrey Dalrymple Nash G. K. Chesterton S. Donald Cox, London Rifle Brigade . 'Ruth Diiffi'n \ 262 143 260 Hele7i Hester Colvill . 266 162 268 278 261 21 133 234 124 177 94 156 30 r 279 203 238 233 112 40 70 War Verse AMERICA COMES IN We are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine, And tlie word has gone before us to the towns upon the Rhine ; As the rising of the tide On the Old-World side, We are coming to the battle, to the Line. From the valleys of Virginia, from the Rockies in the North, We are coming by battalions, for the word was carried forth : " We have put the pen away And the sword is out to-day, For the Lord has loosed the Vintages of Wrath." We are singing in the ships as they carry us to fight, As our fathers sang before us by the camp-fires' light ; In the wharf-light glare, They can hear us Over There When the ships come steaming through the night. Ivight across the deej) Atlantic where the Lusitania passed, With the l)attle-flag of Yankee-land a-floating at the mast We are coming all the while, r)ver twent}' hundred mile, And we're staying to the linish, to the last. 1 2 WAR VERSE We are many — we are one — and we're in it overhead, We are coming as an Army that has seen its women dead. And the old Rebel Yell Will be loud above the shell When we cross the top together, seeing red. Klaxon. Blackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH Men of the 21st Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food, After a day and a night — God, shall we ever forget ! Beaten and broke in the fight. But sticking it — sticking it yet. Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done, Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun! Northumberland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it — sticking it yet. Never a message of hope ! Never a word of cheer ! Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope, With the dull dead plain in our rear. Always the whine of the shell, Always the roar of its burst. Always the tortures of hell, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck and the guns and the Boche, When our Corporal shouted " Stand to! " And I heard some one cry, " Clear the front for the (iuards ! " And the Ckiards came through. Our throats the\ were parched and hot, Ikit Lord, if you'd heard the cheers! Irish and Welsh and Scot, Coldstream and (Irenadicrs. WAR VERSE Two brigades, if you please, Dressing as straight as a hem, We — we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them ! Praying with tear-wet cheek. Praying with outstretched hand, Lord, I could speak for a week. But how could you understand ! How should your cheeks be wet, Such feelin's don't come to you. But when can me or my mates forget, When the Guards came through ! " Five yards left extend ! " It passed from rank to rank. Line after line with never a bend, And a touch of the London swank. A trifle of swank and dash, Cool as a home parade. Twinkle and glitter and flash, Flinching never a shade. With the shrapnel right in their face Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Keeping their swing at an easy pace. Arms at the trail, eyes front ! Man, it was great to see ! Man, it was fine to do ! It's a cot and a hospital ward for me. But I'll tell 'em in Blighty, wherever I be, How the Guards came through. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Times. WAR VERSE FLAGRANTE BELLO IVhen lit fie kings, by mighty crowds acclaimed. Triumphant come from wars they visited. And men who zvcre enriched by those zcho died Are honored for their zvealth and for their words; When money-lords conspire afresh to drive Men's noblest passions to the basest use, And womoi, white and warm as may, zvhose ghosts Made e'en the mud and blood of tvar to bloom — When women droop within the coward's reach; Hold them apart, of happier company. The greatest legion cz'cr raised by Death! Or would you speak of them say only this: No envy touched them, and no greed, nor hate, No sorrow, and the smouldering of loss. Theirs was no huckster's aim and trader's fight, The Sicyon paths of gamblers and of knaves; But the high usufruct of wondrous things, The sunsets and the dawns, and face of earth Sweet after rains, and brown, and patched with cloud, Or green where fields are flowered for little feet; And sings the lark 'midst white and magic skies. And speeds the busy teamster on his plough, Till twilight falls, and twilight's looms enfold With sacred light his cottage and its babes — All that is May-time, all that is England, Not soon forgot, yet readily forgone, When I'Veedom, like a wind, blows through the soul. And men have marked the night, and with the stars (]() out, in silence, and the rush of gold. Taking their beauty with them, even as gods! O gentlemen of England, England's sons, O tiny lads who climbed a father's knee, 6 WAR VERSE And grew in knighthood 'neath a mother's eyes, ' With Youth's delight in sunshine and in power, (His ears enjeweling the blazoned tide. His wings within the glory of the dawn. His feet upon the path, and seeming sleep Against the light before he woke to speed, And swooned upon the goal; the breasts of victory!) Did we not knozu that you would play as well IV hen peril chose the game, and pain the prise; Did we not know that you woidd race to die? No greater glory hath the dying sun. By all the angel hosts adorned — than thine! K. C. Spiers. The Poetry Review. WAR VERSE ANY SOLDIER SON TO HIS MOTHER If I am taken from this patchwork Hfe By some swift outthrust of an unseen arm — The death that strikes my comrades day and night — I pray you make of it no cause of tears, I beg you grieve not for me overmuch. And for your comfort I would pen this thought: The joy you had of me in childhood's days When in your arms I played or cried or prayed (Those soft warm arms! Can you or 1 forget?) \\ill still remain with you when I am gone. It is so real now, that memory; Not death itself can rob you of your child. The boy I was, the man I grew to be, Despite the mother's tender hopes and fears, How distant, how detached and cold they seem. And so, sweet Mother, here I stand to meet My fate, this night and any night ; but still Your child, imperishable whilst you breathe; As in the cradle, so until the end. N. G. H. The Spectator. 8 WAR VERSE • " THE BELLS O' BANFF " As I gaed down the water-side I heard a maiden sing, All in the lee-lone Sabbath morn, And the green glen answering, " No longer hosts encountering hosts Shall clouds of slain deplore, They hang the trumpet in the hall, And study war no more." Dead men of ancient tumults lay In dust below her feet ; Their spirits breathed to her but scents Of mint and the meadow-sweet ; Singing her psalm, her bosom calm As the dappled sky above, She thought the world was dedicate For evermore to love ! O God ! my heart was like to break, Hearing her guileless strain. For pipes screamed through the Highland hills, And swords were forth again ; And little did the lassie ken Banff's battle bells were ringing; Her lad was in the gear of war While she was happy singing! Neil Munro. Blackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE BACK TO LONDON : A POEM OF LEAVE I have not wept when I have seen My stricken comrades die ; I ha\ e not wept when we have made The place where they should lie; My heart seemed drowned in tears, but still No tear came to my eye. There is a time to weep, saith One, A season to refrain ; How should it ope, this fount of tears, While I sat in the train, So that all blurred the landscape moved Out with the window pane? But one short day since I had left A land upheaved and rent, \\'here Spring brings back no bourgeoning, As Nature's force were spent ; Yet now I traveled in a train Thro' the kindly land of Kent ! A kindly land, a pleasant land. As welcome sight to me As after purgatorial i)ains The i Mains of Heaven might be, When the wondrous Goodness that is God Draws a soul from jeopardy. A pleasant land, a peaceful land Of wooded hill and weald, Where kine stand kncc-dec]) in the grass, Anrl sheci) k^'^'ze in the field ; A blessed land, where a wounded heart Might readily be healed. lo WAR VERSE A wholesome land, where each white road Leads to a ruddy hearth ; Where still is heard the sound of song And the kindly note of mirth ; Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toil And the dead sleep sound i' the earth. I have not wept when I have seen My chosen comrades die; I have not wept while we have digged The grave where they should lie ; But now I lay my head in my hand Lest my comrades see me cry. The little children, two by two, Stand on the five-barred gate, And wave their hands to waft us home Like passengers of state; My heart is very full, so full It holds no room for hate. The children climb the five-barred gate And blow us kisses five. The little cripple in his car Waves from the carriage drive : Blessed are the dead, but blessed e'en more We soldiers still alive ! Lo ! we draw near to London town, The troop train jolts and drags. The friendly poor come forth once more To greet us in their rags — The very linen on the line Flutters and flaunts like flags! The girls within the factory grim Smile at the broken pane; The seamstress in her lonely room Sighs o'er her task again ; The servant shakes her duster forth To signal our speeding train ; WAR VERSE II The station names go flitting past Like old familiar friends ; The smoke cloud with the clouds aloft In wondrous fashion blends, And, lo ! we enter London town. To where all journeying ends. I have not wept when I have seen A hundred comrades die; I have not wept when that we shaped The house where they must lie — But now I hide my head in my hand Lest my comrades see me cry. These are the scenes, these the dear souls, 'Mid which our lot was cast, To this loved land, if Fate be kind. We shall return at last, For this our stern steel line we hold — Lord, may we hold it fast ! Sergeant Joseph Lee. The Spectator. 12 WAR VERSE A LOST LAND {To Germany) A childhood land of mountain ways. Where earthly gnomes and forest fays. Kind foolish giants, gentle bears, Sport with the peasant as he fares Affrighted through the forest glades. And lead sweet wistful little maids Lost in the woods, forlorn, alone. To princely lovers and a throne. ****** Dear haunted land of gorge and glen, Ah me ! the dreams, the dreams of men ! A learned land of wise old books And men with meditative looks, Who move in quaint red-gabled towns And sit in gravely- folded gowns. Divining in deep-laden speech The world's supreme arcana — each A homely god to listening Youth Eager to tear the veil of Truth ; Mild votaries of book and pen Alas, the dreams, the dreams of men ! A music land, whose life is wrought In movements of melodious thought ; In symphony, great wave on wave — Or fugue, elusive, swift, and grave; A singing land, whose lyric rhymes Float on the air like village chimes: Music and Verse — the deepest part Of a whole nation's thinking heart ! ^k ^* ^* 3|S J» 3p WAR VERSE 13 Oh, land of Now, oh, land of Then ! Dear God ! the dreams, the dreams of men ! Slave nation in a land of hate, \\ here are the things that made you great? Child-hearted once — oh, deep detiled. Dare you look now upon a child? Yfjur lore — a hideous mask wherein Self-worship hides its monstrous sin: Music and verse, divinely wed — How can these live where love is dead? ****** Oh, depths beneath sweet human ken, God help the dreams, the dreams of men ! Punch. 14 WAR VERSE / SMALL CRAFT When Drake sailed out from Devon to break King Philip's pride, He had great ships at his bidding and little ones beside ; Revenge was there, and Lion, and others known to fame. And likewise he had small craft, which hadn't any name. Small craft — small craft, to harry and to flout 'em! Small craft — small craft, you cannot do without 'em ! Their deeds are unrecorded, their names are never seen, But we know that there were small craft, because there must have been. When Nelson was blockading for three long years and more. With many a bluff first-rater and oaken seventy-four, To share the fun and fighting, the good chance and the bad, Oh, he had also small craft, because he must have had. Upon the skirts of battle, from Sluys to Trafalgar, We know that there were small craft, because there always are ; Yacht, sweeper, sloop, and drifter, to-day as yesterday, The big ships fight the battles, but the small craft clear the way. They scout before the squadrons when mighty fleets engage ; They glean War's dreadful harvest when the fight has ceased to rage; Too great they count no hazard, no task beyond their power. And merchantmen bless small craft a hundred times an hour. WAR VERSE 15 In Admirals' dispatches their names are seldom heard; Thev justify their beinj^ by more than written word; In battle, toil and tempest and dangers manifold The doughty deeds of small craft will never all be told. ♦Scant ease and scantier leisure — they take no heed of these, For men lie hard in small craft when storm is on the seas ; A long watch and a weary, from dawn to set of sun — The men who serve in small craft, their work is never done. And if, as chance may have it, some bitter day they lie Out-classed, out-gunned, out-numbered, with naught to do but die, When the last gun's out of action, good-bye to ship and crew, But men die hard in small craft, as they will always do. Oh, death comes once to each man, and the game it pays for all, And duty is but duty in great ship and in small. And it will not vex their slumbers or make less sweet their rest, Though there's never a big black headline for small craft going west. Great ships and mighty captains — to these their meed of praise For patience, skill and daring, and loud victorious days; To every man his portion, as is both right and fair, But oh ! forget not small craft, for they have done their share. Small craft — small craft, from Scapa Flow to Dover, Small craft — small craft, all the wide world over, At risk of war and shipwreck, tori)edo, mine and shell, All honor be to small craft, for oh, they've earned it well ! C. Fox Smith. Punch. i6 WAR VERSE PIPES IN ARRAS (April, 1917) In the burgh toun of Arras When gloaming had come on, Fifty pipers played Retreat As if they had been one, And the Grande Place of Arras Hummed with the Highland drone ! Then to that ravaged burgh, Champed into dust and sand, Came with the pipers' playing. Out of their own loved land. Sea-sounds that moan for sorrow On a dispeopled strand. There are in France no voices To speak of simple things. And tell how winds will whistle Through palaces of kings ; Now came the truth to Arras In the chanter's warblings: ' O build in pride your towers. But think not they will last ; The tall tower and the shealing Alike must meet the blast, And the world is strewn with shingle From dwellings of the past." But to the Grande Place, Arras, Came, too, the hum of bees, That suck the sea-pink's sweetness From isles of the Hebrides, And in lona fashion Homes mid old effigies : WAR VERSE " Our cells the monks demolished To make their mead of yore, And still though we be ravished Each Autumn of our store, While the sun lasts, and the Hower, Tireless we'll gather more." Up then and spake with twitt'rings Out of the chanter reed, Birds that each Spring to Appin Over the oceans speed, And in its ruined castles Make love again and breed. " Already see our brothers Build in the tottering fane. Though France should be a desert, \\ hile love and Spring remain, Men will come back to Arras, And build and weave again." So played the pipes in Arras Their Gaelic symphony, Sweet with old wisdom gathered In isles of the Highland sea. And eastward toward Cambrai Roared the artillery. Neil Munro. Blackwood's Mayacine. i8 WAR VERSE AN APOCALYPSE Out of the North, Twisting and writhing Hke a dragon snared, Down to the earth the pierced monster sank. . . And therefore some sweet babes awake this morn Who else had been beyond their mother's call. . . And therefore Gretchen will recall long years From now, her father, blazing like a torch Above the shouts of darkened London streets. And this was War ! Joy won by sorrow, life by answering death ; Courage with cruel hate confederate ! Man loyal to his tribe, but to his race Apostate ! Treasures squander'd in the night ! Glory and shame, despair and hope, the lights Of heaven and hell met in that burning point: I saw in that Apocalypse the face Of War unveiled a moment As men will one day see the Face of God. Edward Shillito. The Westminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 19 BEFORE BATTLE {Spring, igiS) O great eternal Spirit of Good, Whom we, Thy children men, adore, Attend the prayer, in patient Parenthood, We now in faith outpour. Now, in this pregnant waiting hour. Preparing for the fight to be. We pray Thee aid us with Thy mighty power To purge Thy world for Thee. But well we know that Thou wilt aid (Our i)rayer but heartens us the more) ; And now the Spring winds blow that Thou hast made, Make firm the fields of war. Grant that, inspired as by Thy breath. Like some great gale we, too, be hurled, A cleansing force, to l)reak and sweep to death A foul thing from the world. As warriors rush into the fight Clas])ing a comrade's stirrup fast, So clinging to the chariot of Thy Might, Shall we prevail at last. Nay, more: so doth Thy power enfold Our hearts, we feci thai, closer still. We are the very weapon in Thy hold To work Thine awful Will. 20 WAR VERSE Thy weapon ! Vibrant through and through With Thee ! Oh, grant we bring to dust This devil brood, and build Thy realm anew With ruthless thrust on thrust; That, at the last, great Spirit of Good, 'Mid all Thy worlds, this world and we Grow clean and fit to claim Thy Fatherhood — Or bid us cease to be ! Habberton Lulham. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 21 THE VOICES (IVritten on leave in a Kentish garden) Slow breaks the hushed June dawn : The pearl-soft light Strikes from the dew- wet lawn Diamonds bright, And, out of sight. Poised in the limpid blue on quivering wings, A lark pours out his soul to God and sings Of hope and faith and love and homely things. Each dew-kissed rose Lifts to the ardent Sun her velvet lip. The splendor grows, And every jeweled tip Flashes a myriad, golden, mimic suns. Then — on the stilled air, Sullen and sinister, Mutter the Voices — the Guns. Noon lifts his flaming crown: Faint in the heat The blue hills burn, and down The village street On laggard feet, A carter walks beside his sweating team. Pausing to let them water at the stream. On the white road the purple shadows dream, And like a bell Tolled faint in fairyland, a cuckoo's note kings from the dell. Clad in his emerald coat Across the dusty road a lizard runs. Then- thrcjugh the heat, W ilh dull menacing beat. Mutter the Voices — the Guns. 22 WAR VERSE Soft falls Night's star-hung veil: In the warm gloom The roses sigh and fill With rich perfume The lighted room, With wave on wave of incense like a prayer. The candles burn straight in the windless air, And there is. sound of laughter, free from care. Softly the light Falls upon gleaming silver and thin glass And damask white. But — as the moments pass And the talk dies to silence and hushed tones, With shuddering breath, Chanting their song of Death, Mutter the Voices — the Guns. jSlackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE 23 AMERICA AT ST. PAUL'S Destiny knocked at the door — " O men of the wilderness, speak! Will you walk on the plain as of yore Or' climb to the peak?" The\' replied — " Be the summit our goal, For the Curse lieth dead at our feet; Now free, body, spirit and soul, Men shall see us complete ! " Came Destiny, flaming with wrath — " Is the Curse, then, so deep in its grave? The old world has straightened its path, iiut you — y(ju enslave." Then they ro.se, hot with anger and shame ; The land was ensanguined and torn ; But out of the anguish and flame True freedom was born. Once again came the knock: came the call — " Lo, the Curse is incarnate at last. And l-'reedom must win or must fall ! The die has been cast. " To her rescue, or yours is the loss, If you bide here alone on the height, And take not (he fiery cross And join in the light ! 24 WAR VERSE " See, they suffer for what you avow : See, they die for your watchwords, your creed ! Come down, lest your records tell how You failed Freedom in need ! " They gazed from their peak with surprise At the nations at grips with the foe, That look of resolve in their eyes Which was theirs, long ago. With a throb of the heart for their kin, With a grasp of the hand for their friend, They cried : " Let us in, let us in ! We are yours to the end ! ** Here stand we : naught else can we do. Take us, all that we have, all we are ! We bide by the issue with you, And this is our war ! " Margaretta Byrde, The Spectator. WAR VERSE 25 THE ANXIOUS DEAD O gruns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions pressing on: (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear And died not knowing how the day had gone.) O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar: Then let your mighty chorus witness be To them, the Caesar, that we still make war. Tell them, O gims, that we have heard their call, That we have sworn, and will not turn aside, That we will onward till we win or fall. That we will keep the faith for which they died. Bid them be patient, and some day, anon Thev shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep. Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn. And in content may turn them to their sleep. John McCrae. 26 WAR VERSE " A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE DAY " I jogged along the footpath way And leaned against the stile; " A merry heart goes all the day," Stoutly I sang the old refrain ; My own heart mocked me back again, " Yet tire you in a mile ! " Well may I tire, that stand alone And turn a wistful glance On each remembered tree and stone, Familiar landmarks of a road Where once so light of heart I strode With one who sleeps in France. Heavily on the stile I lean, Not as we leaned of yore, To drink the beauty of the scene. Glory of green and blue and gold. Shadow and gleam on wood and wold That he will see no more. Then came from somewhere far afield A song of thrush unseen, And suddenly there stood revealed (Oh, heart so merry, song so true!) A day when we shall walk, we two. Where other worlds are green. Punch. WAR VERSE DAWN The moon had long since sunk behind the mists ; The guns had ceased awhile their weary thunder; And all war's foulest vapors seemed to rise In silent protest to the peaceful skies Gazing in wonder. Silently, his sheaves on either hand, Death walked in No-Man's Land. Grimly he gazed on each, and carefully Counted his harvest as it ripened there, Many in tranquil pose, as if they slept; While Mother Earth o'er each her dew had wept, Moistening their hair. And by each side a rusty bayonet lay, Pointing the way. .Thus he came; and ever and anon Lingered o'er something precious lying numbly, — Some sodden shapeless thing, which to the sky Mutely displayed its mangled agony, — I'leading humbly. For this, — which human eyes might shrink to scan, — Had been a man. A drowsy sentry saw him as he passed. Challenged: — and receiving no reply, Fired at the darkness; — but the bullet found Only the mist — whereout there came a sound Of laughing mockery. And frr)m the east the morning's icy breath Whisjjered fjf death. 28 WAR VERSE A sudden star-shell leaped toward the sky, Where high and searchingly its fiery head Reigned in brief tyranny and with its spell Froze the black earth — till falteringly it fell Among the dead, — On either side a coldly staring eye Watching it die. Wearily the sun climbed to his post To watch the struggling world as on it rolls Dripping with blood from youth's best vintage pressed, And ceaselessly from out its heaving breast Breathing souls. . . . Up out from yonder where the dead repose A lark arose. . . . P. S. M. Blackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE 29 CALLED BACK You send them forth to do your work, whatever it might be, The work of Mother England beyond the sundering sea ; And North and South and East and West they bent them to the yoke, To toil and play in the English way among the alien folk. Some passing thought you spared them as they lived their strenuous days ; Some scanty dole you sometimes gave of honor or of praise ; Some dim idea you had of what they wrought with brain and hand ; And mostly you forgot them, O heedless Motherland. But scorching in the troi)ic blaze, or shivering in the snow, From the Andes to the Altai, from the Line to the Arctic floe, They felt the touch of the island air, the moist, mist- laden breeze. The scented ICnglish hedgerows, the whispering English trees. So when it struck, the fateful hour, and liritain called her sons. To stand to arms and hold the gate against the crashing guns, They heard the call across the world; bv rail and slii]) they came, To fight and die for their fathers' flag, and the pride of the ICnglish name. From bungalow and cutchery, from i)ort and dock they sped, From cattle-ranch and station, frr)m mine and engine- shed ; 30 WAR VERSE From all the Continents they flocked, a mixed and various crew, Sized up together on parade, and shared the ration stew ; And Tompkins Sahib of Bangalore met Senor Jones of Rio, And both were taught their drill by Sergeant Johnson from Ohio. And some will go back on the old trail, when the fighting time is past, And do their work, and take their wage, and come to rest at last. And some will not go back again, their wandering days are done, They'll never feel the Northern wild, nor the bite of the Southern sun. They sleep beside the Meuse and Somme, beneath the Flanders loam ; The exiles of the Motherland who found their way to Home. Orellius. The London Chronicle. WAR VERSE 31 THE GUNS IN SUSSEX Lic^ht careen of grass and richer green of bush Slope upwards to the darkest green of iir; How still ! How deathly still ! And yet the hush Shivers and trembles with some subtle stir, ' Some far-off throbbing, like a muffled drum, Beaten in broken rhythm oversea, To play the last funereal march of some Who die to-day that Europe may be free. The deep-blue heaven, curving from the green, Spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone; In all God's earth there is no gentler scene, And yet I hear that awesome monotone; Above the circling midge's piping shrill, And the long droning of the questing bee, Above all sultry summer sounds, it still Mutters its ceaseless menaces to me. And as I listen all the garden fair Darkens to plains of misery and death. And looking past the roses I see there Those sordid furrows, with the rising breath Of all things foul and black. My heart is hot Within me as I view it, and I cry, P.ettcr the misery of these men's lot 'J'han all the peace that comes to such as I ! " And strange that in the pauses of the sound I hear the children's laughter as they roam, And then their mother calls, and all around Rise uj) the gentle murmurs of a home. But still I gaze afar, and at the sight My whole soul softens to its heartfelt prayer, Spirit of Justice, Thou for whom they fight. Ah, turn, in mercy, to our lads out there ! 32 WAR VERSE " The f reward peoples have deserved Thy wrath, And on them is the Judgment as of old. But if they wandered from the hallowed path, Yet is their retribution manifold. Behold all Europe writhing on the rack, The sins of fathers grinding down the sons, How long, O Lord ! " He sends no answer back, But still I hear the mutter of the guns. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Times. WAR VERSE 33 THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR STREET There's a woman sobs her heart out, With her head against the door, For the man that's called to leave her, — God have pity on the poor! But it's beat, drums, beat, While the lads march down the street. And it's blow, trumpets, blow, Keep your tears until they go. There's a crowd of little children That march along and shout. For it's fine to play at soldiers Now their fathers are called out. So it's beat, drums, beat ; But who'll find them food to eat ? And it's blow, trumpets, blow. Oh, it's little children know. There's a mother who stands watching For the last look of her son, A worn poor widow woman, And he her only one. PiUt it's beat, drums, beat. Though Ciod knows when we shall meet ; And it's blow, trumpets, blow, We must smile and cheer them so. There's a young girl who stands laughing. For she thinks a war is grand, And it's fine to sec the lads pass, And it's fine to hear the band. 34 WAR VERSE So it's beat, drums, beat, To the fall of many feet; And it's blow, trumpets, blow, God go with you where you go. W. M. Letts. The Westminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 35 A CAROL FROM FLANDERS J914 In Flanders on llie Christmas morn The trenched foemen lay, The German and the Briton born — And it was Christmas Day. The red sun rose on fields accurst, The gray fog fled away ; But neither cared to fire the first, For it was Christmas Day. They called from each to each across The hideous disarray (For terrible had been their loss) : " O, this is Christmas Day ! " Their rifles all they set aside, One impulse to obey; 'Twas just the men on either side, Just men — and Christmas Day. They dug the graves for all their dead And over them did i)ray ; And Englishman and German said: " How strange a Christmas Day ! " Between the trenches then they met, .Shook hands, and e'en did play At games on which their hearts are set On hajjpy Christmas Day. Not all the I'jnperors and Kings, Financiers, and they Who rule us couUl jircvent these things- I'or it was Christmas Day. 36 WAR VERSE O ye who read this truthful rime From Flanders, kneel and say : God speed the time when every day Shall he as Christmas Day. Frederick Niven. The Athenaeum. WAR VERSE 37 A CHANT OF EMPIRE Home-Dzvcllcrs Gray Mother of mig;hly nations, Co-heir with the traveled sun Whose Hfe is the hfe of many, Yet wells from the heart of one, Give ear to thy children's voices Now borne to thee swift and strong, As the note of their exultation Upsoars on the wings of song ! O spell of the breath of Music In souls that have ears to hear, That breaketh all bars asunder And bringeth the distant near ! For lo ! at her wand's uplifting The North and the South are spanned, And East is with West united, And all with the Motherland ! Empire-Builders Ah ! that is the word We fain had heard When the wilderness hemmed us in, As we felled the forest or tilled the fen, And far from the holy haunts of men Lcjngcd sore for the da\' to be once again Made one with our kith and kin. O heart, now listen ! n li|)s, be dumb ! The day was coming, The day has come ! 38 WAR VERSE Home-Dwellers And ye that marvel whereof we sing, Look up and behold a wondrous thing, How folk upon folk adult and free, Builders of Britain beyond the sea. Whose valor and worth Enzone the earth, Yet babe-like yearn to their Mother's knee, With home-felt rapture renown her reign. And thrill to the tones of her triumph-strain. All Voices United Hail fair and majestic Empire, From ages beyond our ken The hope and the home of Freedom, The love and the fear of men ! For one with the seas thy splendor, And one with the winds thy way, And the web of thine endless story Is woven by night and day Of Ocean's infinite travail. Criss-crossed with the to and fro Of a thousand keels returning, A thousand that outward go; For a might that is elemental Hath builded thee there sublime. And he that would break thy bulwarks Must carry the walls of Time. James Rhoades. The Fortnightly Review. WAR VERSE 39 CHARING CROSS y L" I went along the river-side to-day, Under the railway Bridge at Charing Cross, Where many such as you are swept away And we are left to wonder at your loss. The station echoes with your ghostly feet ; Your laughing voices cling about each wall; You entered gaily from the sunlit street To pass into the sun again and fall. The train slid out under the April sky And London's throbbing heart was left behind; And many more will follow you to die, Crossing the silent river, there to find Host upon hij>[, ilieir comrades glorified. Saluting them upon the other side. Marian Allen. The Poetry Review. 40 WAR VERSE THE WOMAN'S TOLL O Mother, mourning for the son who keeps His last dread watch by unfamiliar streams, Or for that other, gay of heart, who sleeps Where the great waters guard his secret dreams, Amid your tears take comfort for a space, They showed them worthy of their island race. O Wife, who heard across the wintry sea Death's trumpet shrill for him who goes no more Riding at dawn with that brave company Whose fellowship no morning shall restore. In its dark heart your bitterest hour shall bring Scents from the scattered petals of the spring. O Maid, with wondering eyes untouched of grief, War's dreadful shadow spares your innocent years, Yet shall you deem the ways of sunshine brief. Paying long hence your toll of hidden tears For love that perished ere the web was spun. And children that shall never see the sun. Ruth Duffin. The Nation. WAR VERSE 41 PEACE Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power, To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move, And half-men. and their dirty songs and dreary, And all the little emptiness of love ! Oh ! we, who have known shame, we have found release there. Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending. Naught broken save this body, lost but breath ; Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there But only agony, and that has ending; And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. Rupert Brooke. ^ 42 WAR VERSE FOR THEE THEY DIED For thee their pilgrim swords were tried, Thy flaming word was in their scrips, They battled, they endured, they died To make a new Apocalypse. Master and Maker, God of Right, The soldier dead are at thy gate. Who kept the spears of honor bright And freedom's house inviolate. John Drinkwater. WAR VERSE 43 A CROSS IN FLANDERS In the face of death, they say, he joked — he had no fear: His comrades, when they laid him in a Flanders grave. Wrote on a rough-hewn cross — a Calvary stood near — " Without a fear he gave " His life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips." So wrote the\', mourning him. Yet was there only one Who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips, One only, she alone — She who, not so long since, when love was new-con- fessed, Herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim, And jested, while with reverence despite her jest She worshipped God and him. She knew — O Love, O Death ! — his soul had been at grips With the most solemn things. For she, was she not dear? Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips. The braver for his fear! G. Rostrl:vuk Hamilton. The Athctiaciim. 44 WAR VERSE THE DEAD TO THE LIVING O you that still have rain and sun, Kisses of children and of wife, And the good earth to tread upon. And the mere sweetness that is life, Forget not us, who gave all these For something dearer, and for you ! Think in what cause we crossed the seas ! Remember, he who fails the challenge Fails us too. Now in the hour that shows the strong — The soul no evil powers affray — Drive straight against embattled Wrong: Faith knows but one, the hardest, way. Endure ; the end is worth the throe. Give, give ; and dare, and again dare ! On, to that Wrong's great overthrow ! We are with you, of you ; we the pain and Victory share. Laurence Binyon. The Times. WAR VERSE 45 DEVON MEN From Bideford to Appledore the meadows lie aglow With kingcup and buttercup that tiout the summer snow ; And crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day, And lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay ; For gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore, The lithe men and long men, The brown men and strong men, The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore. From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of old With cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold; They sped away with dauntless Drake to traffic on the Alain, To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train ; For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweep- ing oar, The strong men, the free men, The bold men, the seamen, ^ The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore. From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle gray Are strcjng hearts and steady hearts to kee[) the sea to-day ; So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom And Summer weaves her color-threads upon a golden lr)om ; For ready are the tawny hands that guard tiic Devon shore, The cool men, the bluff men, The keen men. ihc tough men, The men that hie from Bidefcnd and ruddy Appledore! Punch. 46 WAR VERSE GRAY GAUNTLET Gray Gauntlet, you of the wristlets wrought Of home-spun soft and gray, Do you hear the flashing needles click Three thousand miles away ? Oh, it's purl and plain, And a toss of the arm. For freeing the endless thread: And mystic whisp'rings with each stitch Too sacred to e'er be said. Gray Gauntlet, you of the sword must go. We of the spindle stay: And our needles speed that our lads may march Mail-coated in woolen gray. Oh, it's slip and bind. And seam and count, And turn the heels with care: No craven fears in the meshes hide But only a murmured prayer. Elmina Atkinson. The Bookman. WAR VERSE 47 ALL'S WELL! Watchman, watchman, what of the night. What of the night to tell ? There are widows weeping, and babes affright, And a ceaseless burial bell. But the hand that holds the gun Still shakes not ; And the line drops one by one. Yet breaks not. Of the blood so nobly poured There shall surely be reward. In the name of the Lord, All's Well ! F. W. BOURDILLON. 48 WAR VERSE HALF A SCORE O' SAILORMEN Half a score o' sailormen that want to sail once more, Cruising around the waterside with the Peter at the fore, Half a score o' sailormen the sea'll never drown (Seven days in open boats a-drifting up and down!), Out to find another ship and sail from London Town. Half a score o' sailormen broke and on the rocks, Linking down Commercial Road, tramping round the Docks, Half a score o' sailormen, torpedoed thrice before — Once was in the Channel chops, once was off the Nore, Last was in the open sea a hundred mile from shore. Half a score o' sailormen that want to sail again — And her cargo's all aboard her, and it's blowing up for rain ! Half a score o' sailormen that won't come home to tea, For she's dropping down the river with the Duster flying free, Down the London River on the road to the open sea ! C. Fox Smith. Punch. WAR VERSE 49 TO ENGLAND \\'hen the agony is done and you are free To lay aside the sword, when all but those Who died to save you from your ruthless foes Come home, what will you be? Will you be honest with yourself at last, And look the world full in its ugly face, Unboastful of your goodness and your grace, When this ordeal is past? Will you have judgment, with clear, pain-purged sense, To weigh things in the balance? Some that seem Of large significance will kick the beam, Like coins of false pretense; Others, in aspect dull, with no display To tempt ambition, will draw down the scale, However counterpoised; and not for sale At any cost are they. Why do you suffer anguish? Not for forms Religious or political you care Now ; but for Freedom and your Homes you dare To brave these storms. Keep then in sight what war has made you see ; Think no small thoughts again; not faint or far Shines, like the star of Bethlehem, your star Of glorious destiny. Francis Coutts. The Outlook. 50 WAR VERSE THE EVERLASTING ARMS The tides of Death go swiftly home And the nets of Pain are spread : The blood runs warm on the cold, cold loam In desolate fields of dead. The shadows fall and the great guns call, But there with silent tread His footsteps go through the lanes of woe, White Lord of the Thorn-Crowned Head. From out of the peace of God's abode He comes when brave men fail, His limbs oppressed of an ancient load — The spear and the denting nail : But His eyes are bright as an altar-light In the calm of an altar-rail, And the stricken sing to see Him bring His gift of the Holy Grail. And some men wake on their Comrade's breast, And some men live to praise, But some fare forth through the dark of the West With the Christ of their childhood days — To stand fidl free in His Chivalry — To dwell in His love always; And they proudly go — with their zvounds aglow Transfigured in His gaze. A. G. Prys- Jones. The Poetry Review. WAR VERSE 51 "MISSING" When the anxious hearts say "Where?" He doth answer " In My care." " Is it Hfe or is it death?" " Wait," He whispers. " Child, liave faith ! " " Did they need love's tenderness ? " " Is there love like Mine to bless?" " Were they frightened at the last ? " " No, the sting of death is past." " Did a thought of ' Home-Love ' rise? " " I looked down thro' Mother-eyes." " Saviour, tell us, where are they ? " " In My keeping, night and day." " Tell us, tell us, how it stands." " None shall pluck them from My Hands." The Bookman. 52 WAR VERSE THE "ORION'S" FIGUREHEAD AT WHITEHALL All wind and rain, the clouds fled fast across the evening sky — Whitehall aglimmer like a beach the tide has scarce left dry ; And there I saw the figurehead which once did grace the bow Of the old bold Orion, The fighting old Orion, In the days that are not now. And I wondered did he dream at all of those great fights of old, And ships from out whose oaken sides Trafalgar's thunder rolled; There was Ajax, Neptune, Temeraire, Revenge, Levia- than, With the old bold Orion, The fighting old Orion, When Victory led the van. Old ships, their ribs are ashes now; but still the names they bore And still the hearts that manned them live to sail the seas once more, To sail and fight, and watch and ward, and strike as stout a blow As the old bold Orion, The fighting old Orion, In the wars of long ago. They watch, the gaunt gray fighting ships, in silence bleak and stern ; They wait — not yet, not yet has dawned the day for which they burn ! WAR VERSE 5^ They're watching, waiting for the word that sets their tluinders free, Like the old bold Orion, The fighting old Orion, \\ hen Nelson sailed the sea. Oh, waiting is a weary game, but Nelson played it too. And, be it late or be it soon, such deeds are yet to do As never your starry namesake saw who walked the mid- night skv — Old bold Orion, I'ighting old Orion, Of the great old years gone by. And be the game a w^aiting game we'll play it with the best ; Or be the game a watching game we'll watch and never rest; But the fighting game it pays for all when the guns begin to play (Old, bold Orion, Fighting old Orion) Like the guns of yesterday. Punch. 54 WAR VERSE IT CANNOT BE It cannot be that, having seen the day, We should endure the tyranny of the night ; For if we have not sinned against the Hght, Nor made an idol of the sword, as they, The powers of darkness set in fierce array Shall not o'ermaster us. The sword shall smite Its proud idolaters, and all their might Shall wither, and their glory pass away. No more shall lawless force be throned as God, The troubled nations of the earth no more Shall humbly wait upon a despot's nod. And when the sacred cause for which they bled Is surely stablished, we will turn and pour Libation to the uncomplaining dead. F. E. Maitland. The London Times.. WAR VERSE 55 THE INWARD CLARION \\'hen I behold dear youth sent down to death ; And homely cities barbarously sacked; Christ's followers here denying what He saith, Christian in babbled word, heathen in act ; Nations all bloody from fraternal strife; And beauty powerless as a broken wing; Then I despair of faith and art and life — Until I hear this inward clarion ring: " Rate not too richly peace and happiness, Sorrow and war have each their lively sap, Eternal truth un foiled by temporal stress, Immortal being unharmed by mortal hap." Then do I know that nothing can work wrong To men or man, nor vex them overlong. Wallace Bertram Nichols. The Poetry Review. 56 WAR VERSE THE LITTLE PEOPLES The Pharaohs trampled on us in their day, As slaves we trod the streets of Babylon, The Roman Eagles found in us their prey. Yet we remain, and all our lords are gone. Innumerable as the starry host, Or sand of the seashore, the Persian came ; We met him undismayed by threat and boast, And flung him back to ruin and to shame. Between the brimming sea and level land, We learned the secret of the strong and free, Not Philip's might, not Alva's ruthless hand. Could rob us of our birthright — liberty. And ye, O few in numbers, great of heart ! In you hath glowed once more the undying flame, Loss, anguish, death itself, have been your part, Loss could not daunt you, death nor anguish tame. In you the heroic past hath lived again, Through you the days to come shall fairer be, Nor one of all your brave have fallen in vain, O little people of the Northern sea ! B. Paul Neuman. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 57 IN TIME OF WAR I dreamed (God pity babes at play) How I should love past all romance, And how to him beloved should say, As heroes' women say, perchance, When the deep drums awake — " Go forth : do gloriously for my dear sake." But now I render, blind with fear, No lover made of dreams, but You, O You — so commonplace, so dear, So knit with all I am or do ! Now, braver thought I lack : Onlv God bring vou back — God bring you back ! Lesbia Tiianet. The Bookman. 58 WAR VERSE THE SPIRES OF OXFORD (Seen from the Train) I saw the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The gray spires of Oxford Against a pearl-gray sky. My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The hoary Colleges look down On careless boys at play. But when the bugles sounded war They put their games away. They left the peaceful river, The cricket field, the quad. The shaven lawns of Oxford To seek a bloody sod — They gave their merry youth away For country and for God. God rest you, happy gentlemen, , Who laid your good lives down. Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town. W. M. Letts. The Westminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 59 BEFORE MARCHING, AND AFTER (III Memoriam: F. IT. G.) / Orion swung southward aslant Where the starved Egdon pine-trees had thinned, The rieiads aloft seemed to pant With ilie heather that twitched in the wind; But he looked on indifferent to sights such as these. Unswayed by love, friendship, home joy or home sorrow, And wondered to what he would march on the morrow. The crazed household clock with its whirr Rang midnight within as he stood. He heard the low sighing of her Who had striven from his birth for his good ; But he still only asked the spring starlight, the lireeze, What great thing or small thing his history would borrow From that Game with Death he would play on the morrow. When the heath wore the robe of late summer. And the fuchsia-bells, hot in the sun, Hung red by the door, a quick comer Brought tidings that marcliing was done For him who had joined in that game overseas Where Death stood to win ; though his memory would borrow A brightness therefrom not to die on the morrow. Thomas Hardy. September, iQi^. The Fortnightly Review. 6o WAR VERSE NON-COMBATANTS Never of us be said That we reluctant stood As sullen children, and refused to dance To the keen pipe that sounds across the fields of France. Though shrill the note and wild, Though hard the steps and slow, The dancing floor defiled. The measure full of woe, And dread The solemn figure that the dancers tread, We faltered not. Of us, this word shall not be said. Never of us be said We had no war to wage, Because our womanhood, Because the weight of age, Held us in servitude. None sees us fight, Yet we in the long night Battle to give release To all whom we must send to seek and die for peace. When they have gone, we in a twilit place Meet Terror face to face. And strive With him, that we may save our fortitude alive. Theirs be the hard, but ours the lonely bed. Nought were we spared — of us, this word shall not be said. Never of us be said We failed to give God-speed to our adventurous dead. WAR VERSE 6t Not in self -pitying mood We saw them go, When they set forth on those spread wings of pain : So glad, so young, As birds whose fairest lays are yet unsung Dart to the height And ihence pour down their passion of delight, Their passii.g into melody was turned. So were our hearts uplifted from the low, Our griefs to rapture burned ; And, mounting with the music of that throng, Cutting a path athwart inlinity, Our puzzled eyes Achieved the healing skies To hnd again Each winged spirit as a speck of song Embosomed in Thy deep eternity. Though from our homely fields that feathered joy has fled We murmur not. Of us, this word shall not be said. Evelyn Undf.riiill. The Westminster Gazette. 62 WAR VERSE IN THE MORNING Back from battle, torn and rent, Listing bridge and stanchion" !:;ent By the angry sea. By Thy guiding mercy sent, Fruitful was the road we went — Back from battle we. If Thou hadst not been, O Lord, behind our feeble arm, If Thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home, When against us men arose and sought to work us harm, We had gone to death, O Lord, in spouting rings of foam. Heaving sea and cloudy sky Saw the battle flashing by. As Thy foeman ran. By Thy grace, that made them fly, We have seen two hundred die Since the fight began. If our cause had not been Thine, for Thy eternal Right, If the foe in place of us had fought for Thee, O Lord ! If Thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight We never should have closed with them — Thy seas are dark and broad. Through the iron rain they fled. Bearing home the tale of dead. Flying from Thy sword. After-hatch to fo'c's'le head, We have turned their decks to red, By Thy help, O Lord ! WAR VERSE 63 It was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown, r>ut Thy right hand that dashed them down, the servants of the proud; It was not arm of ours that saved, but Thine, O Lord, alone, When down the line the guns began, and sang Thy praise aloud. Sixty miles of running fight, Finished at the dawning light. Off the Zuider Zee. Thou that helped throughout the night \\'eary hand and aching sight. Praise, O Lord, to Thee. Klaxon. Blackwood's Magazine. 64 WAR VERSE " LEAVE HER, JOHNNIE ! " A hundred miles from the Longships' Ught — Leave her, Johmiie, leave her ! And blowing up for a dirty night — And it's time for us to leave her ! Down by the head and settling fast — Her name and number's up at last, And it's time for us to leave her ! ' It isn't the sea she's sailed so long, It isn't the wind that's used her wTong, But it's time for us to leave her ! We's pumped her out with a right good will, A day and a night, and she's sinking still, And it's time for us to leave her ! She's smashed above and she's stove below. And there's nothing to do but roll and go, For it's time for us to leave her ! A hundred miles from the Longships' light — Leave her, Johnnie, leave her ! And blowing up for a dirty night — It's time for us to leave her. C. Fox Smith. The London Chronicle. WAR VERSE HOME AT LAST To an open house in the evening, Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden, And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where (iod was homeless. And all men are at home. G. K. Chesterton. 66 WAR VERSE " SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE " Somewhere in France " — we know not where — he lies, Mid shuddering earth and under anguished skies ! We may not visit him, but this we say : Though our steps err his shall not miss their way. From the exhaustion of War's fierce embrace He, nothing doubting, went to his own place. To him has come, if not the crown and palm, The kiss of Peace — a vast, sufficing calm ! So fine a spirit, daring, yet serene, — He may not, surely, lapse from what has been : Greater, not less, his wondering mind must be ; Ampler the splendid vision he must see. 'Tis unbelievable he fades away, — An exhalation at the dawn of day ! Nor dare we deem that he has but returned Into the Oversoul, to be discerned Hereafter in the bosom of the rose. In petal of the lily, or in those Far jewelled sunset skies that glow and pale, Or in the rich note of the nightingale. Nay, though all beauty may recall to mind What we in his fair life were wont to find. He shall escape absorption, and shall still Preserve a faculty to know and will. Such is my hope, slow climbing to a faith : (We know not Life, how should we then know Death ?) From our small limits and withholdings free. Somewhere he dwells and keeps high company ; Yet tainted not with so supreme a bliss As to forget he knew a world like this. John Hogben. The Spectator, WAR VERSE 67 NOT WITH VAIN TEARS / Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun, We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread Those dusty hi ti^h roads of the aimless dead Plaintive for Ivarth ; but rather turn and run Down some close-covered byway of the air. Some low sweet alley between wind and wind. Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there Spend in pure converse our eternal day ; Think each in each, immediately wise; Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say What this tumultuous body now denies; And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; And see, no longer blinded by our eyes. Rupert Brooke. 68 WAR VERSE GODS OF WAR Fate wafts us from the pygmies' shore: We swim beneath the epic skies : A Rome and Carthage war once more, And wider empires are the prize ; Where the beaked galleys clashed, lo, these Our iron dragons of the seas ! High o'er the mountains' dizzy steep The winged chariots take their flight. The steely creatures of the deep Cleave the dark waters' ancient night. Below, above, in wave, in air New worlds for conquest everywhere. More terrible than spear or sword Those stars that burst with fiery breath : More loud the battle cries are poured Along a hundred leagues of death. So do they fight. How have ye warred, Defeated Armies of the Lord? This is the Dark Immortal's hour; His victory, whoever fail ; His prophets have not lost their power: Csesar and Attila prevail. These are your legions still, proud ghosts, These myriad embattled hosts. How wanes thine empire, Prince of Peace ! With the fleet circling of the suns The ancient gods their power increase. Lo, how Thine own anointed ones Do pour ttpon the warring bands The devil's blessings from their hands. WAR VERSE 69 Who dreamed a dream mid outcasts born Could overbrow the pride of kings? They pour on Christ tiie ancient scorn. His Dove its gold and silver wings Has spread. Perhaps it nests in flame In outcasts who abjure His name. Choose ye your rightful gods, nor pay Lip reverence that the heart denies, O Nations. Is not Zeus to-day, The thunderer from the epic skies, More than the Prince of Peace? Is Thor Not nobler for a world at war? They fit the dreams of power we hold, Those gods whose names are with us still. I^Ien in their image made of old The high companions of their will. \\ ho seek an airy empire's pride. Would they pray to the Crucified? O outcast Christ, it was too soon For flags of battle to be furled While life was yet at the high noon. Come in the twilight of the world : Its kings may greet Thee without scorn And crown Thee then without a thorn. A. E. The Times. 70 WAR VERSE WOMEN TO MEN God bless you, lads ! All women of the race, As forth you go, Wish you with steadfast face The best they know. God cheer you, lads ! Out in the bitter nights, Down the drear days, Through the red reeking fights And wasted ways. God bring you, lads, Back to the motherland, True laurels gained. Glory in either hand. Honor unstained. Women of Britain's race, As forth you go, W^ish you with proud glad face The best they know : God bless you, lads ! Punch. WAR VERSE 71 THE SOLDIER / If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaj^ed, made aware, (iave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given ; Her sights and sounds ; dreams happy as her day ; And laughter, learnt of friends ; and gentleness. In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooki£. 72 WAR VERSE THE NORTH SEA GROUND Oh, Grimsby is a pleasant town as any man may find, An' Grimsby wives are thrifty wives, an' Grimsby girls are kind. An' Grimsby lads were never yet the lads to lag behind When there's men's work doin' on the North Sea ground. An' it's " Wake up, Johnnie ! " for the high tide's flowin', An' off the misty waters a cold wind blowin' ; Skipper's come aboard, an' it's time that we were goin'. An' there's fine fish waitin' on the North Sea ground. Soles in the Silver Pit — an' there we'll let 'em lie ; Cod on the Dogger- — oh, we'll fetch 'ern by-an'-by ; War on the water — an' it's time to serve an' die. For there's wild work doin' on the North Sea ground. An' it's " W^ake up, Johnnie ! " they want you at the trawlin' (With your long sea-boots and your tarry old tarpaulin) ; AH across the bitter seas duty comes a-callin' In the Winter's weather off the North Sea ground. It's well we've learned to laugh at fear^the sea has taught us how ; It's well we've shaken hands with death — we'll not be strangers now. With death in every climbin' wave before the trawler's bow, An' the black spawn swimmin' on the North Sea ground. WAR VERSE 73 Good luck to all our tighliu' ships that rule the English sea ; Good luck to our brave merchantmen wherever they may be ; The sea it is their highway, an' we've got to sweep it free For the ships passin' over on the Xorth Sea ground. An' it's " Wake up, Johnnie! " for the sea wind's crying; " Time an' time to go where the herrin' gulls are flyin' ;" An' down below the stormy seas the dead men lyin', Oh, the dead lying quiet on the North Sea ground ! Punch. 74 WAR VERSE A. B. V. I bow my head, O brother, brother, brother, But may not grudge you that were All to me. Should any one lament when this our mother Mourns for so many sons on land and sea? God of the love that makes two lives as one Give also strength to see that England's will be done. Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle, Up to the fulness of all sacrifice. Our dead feared this alone — to give too little. Then shall the living murmur at the price? The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the plough Would suffer only if the furrow faltered now. Know, fellow-mourners — be our cross too grievous— That One who sealed our symbol with His blood Vouchsafes the vision that shall never leave us : Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud. And think there rests all-hallowed in each grave A life given freely for the world He died to save. And, far ahead, dim tramping generations, Who never felt and cannot guess our pain, — Though history count nothing less than nations, And fame forget where grass has grown again — Shall yet remember that the world is free. It is enough. For this is immortality. I raise my head, O brother, brother, brother. The organ sobs for triumph to my heart. What ! who will think that ransomed Earth can smother WAR VERSE 75 Her own great soul of which you are a part! The reciuiem music dies as if it knczo The inviohite peace where 'tis ah-eady well with you. R. V. The Spectator. 76 WAR VERSE BRITISH MERCHANT SERVICE Oh, down by Millvvall Basin as I went the other day, I met a skipper that I knew, and to him I did say : " Now what's the cargo, Captain, that brings you up this way?" " Oh, I've been up and down (said he) and round about also . . . From Sydney to the Skagerack, and Kiel to Callao . . . With a leaking steam-pipe all the way to Cal- if orn-i-o . . . " With pots and pans and ivory fans and every kind of thing, Rails and nails and cotton bales and sewer pipes and string . . . But now I'm through with cargoes, and I'm here to serve the King! " And if it's sweeping mines (to which my fancy some- what leans) Or hanging out with booby-traps for the skulking sub- marines, I'm here to do my blooming best and give the beggars beans ! " A rough job and a tough job is the best job for me, And what or where I don't much care, I'll take what it may be. For a tight place is the right place when it's foul weather at sea ! " WAR VKRSE 77 There's not a port he doesn't know from Melbourne to New York ; He's as hard as a lump of harness beef, and as salt as pickled pork . . . And he'll stand by a wreck in a murdering gale and count it part of his work! He's the terror of the fo'c's'le when he heals its various ills Willi lurjientine and mustard leaves, and poultices and pills . . . But he knows the sea like the palm of his hand, as a shepherd knows the hills. He'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark — and half of 'em are true ! He swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two ! And . . . he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crew. A rough job or a tough job — he's handled two or . three — And what or where he w^on't much care, nor ask what the risk may be . . . For a tight place is the right place when it's wild weather at sea ! C. Fox Smith. The Spectator. 78 WAR VERSE CHRIST IN FLANDERS We had forgotten You, or very nearly — You did not seem to touch us very nearly — Of course we thought about You now and then ; Especially in any time of trouble — We knew that You were good in time of trouble — But we are very ordinary men. And there were always other things to think of — There's lots of things a man has got to think of — His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife ; And so we only thought of You on Sunday — Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday — Because there's always lots to fill one's life. And, all the while, in street or lane or byway — In country lane, in city street, or byway — You walked among us, and we did not see. Your feet w^ere bleeding as You walked our pavements- How did we miss Your Footprints on our pavements ?- Can there be other folk as blind as we ? Now we remember ; over here in Flanders — (It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders) — This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. We never thought about You much in England — But now that we are far away from England — We have no doubts, we know that You are here. You helped us pass the jest along the trenches — Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches — You touched its ribaldry and made it fine. You stood beside us in our pain and weakness — We're glad to think You understand our weakness — • Somehow it seems to help us not to whine. WAR VERSE 79 We think about You kneeling in the Garden — Ah! tied! the agony of that dread Garden — We know You prayed for us upon the Cross. If anything could make us glad to bear it — 'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it — Pain — death — the uttermost of human loss. Though we forgot You — You will not forget us — We feel so sure that You will not forget us — But stay with us until this dream is past. And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon — Especially, I think, we ask for pardon — And that You'll stand beside us to the last. The Spectator. 8o WAR VERSE " THEY ALSO SERVE . o • Oh, Father ! hear us when we plead For those who fight and those who bleed ; For those who yield their lives that we May safely rest in liberty. Remember, Lord, compassionate, Thy servants who must stand and wait. They serve Thee too, we know full well; How hard it is, we cannot tell, To fold the hands that fain would share A portion of the awful care. Have mercy. Lord, compassionate, On those whom Thou hast bidden " wait.". And as the fleeting hours fly. And one by one hope's mornings die, And they are left there, waiting still The working of Thine hidden will. Oh ! Saviour, all compassionate. Keep vigil Thou, with those who wait. The Bookman. WAR VERSE 8i CHALK AND FLINT Comes there now a might}- rally From the weald and from the coast, Down from clitT and up from valley, Spirits of an ancient host ; Castle gray and village mellow, Coastguard's track and shepherd's fold, Crumhling church and cracked martello Echo to this chant of old — Chant of knight and chant of howman: Kciil and Sussex feared no foenian In the valiant days of old! Screaming gull and lark a-singing, P.ui)l)ling brook and booming sea. Church and cattle bells a-ringing Swell the ghostly melody ; Chalk and flint. Sirs, lie beneath ye, Mingling with our dust below ! Chalk and flint. Sirs, they beciueath ye This our chant of long ago ! " Chant of knight and chant of bowman, Chant of s(|uire and chant of yeoman: Ke}it and Sussex feared no foeman In the days of long ago! Hills that heed not Time or weather, Sussex down and Kentish lane, Roads that wind through marsh and heather Feel the mail-shod feet again ; Chalk and flint their dead are giving — Spectres grim and sjiectrcs bold — Marching on to cheer the living ' With their battle-chant of old — 82 WAR VERSE Chant of knight and chant of bowman, Chant of squire and chant of yeoman : Witness Norman! Witness Roman! Kent and Sussex feared no foeman In the valiant days of old. Punch. WAR VERSE 83 THE PITY OF IT I walked in loamy Wessex lanes afar I-'ioni rail-track and from highway, and I heard In field and farmstead many an ancient word Of local lineage like " Thu blst," " Er war," " Ich woll," " Er sholl," and by-talk similar. Even as they speak who in this month's moon gird At England's very loins, thereunto spurred By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are. Then seemed a Heart crying; " Whosoever they be At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we, " Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame: May their familiars grow to shun their name. And their breed perish everlastingly." Thomas Hardy. The Fortnightly Review. 84 WAR VERSE PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR Oh ! dear fields of my country, hedges and lanes and meadows, Hedges where wild rose blossoms, meadows where daisies grow. Fields where the green corn shivers, lanes where the kindly shadows Hide from unloving eyes the way that the lovers go . . . Still through the loud loom's clanging, under the tall mill's shadow. Through dirt and noise of cities live old sweet sounds and sights : Birds that sing in the copses, flowers that border the meadows. Streams that tinkle and sprinkle leaves in the magic nights. Here where the high elms circle ancient churchyards and meadows. Fields where our fathers toiled, churchyards where now they sleep, Lanes where our fathers sought the kind love-sheltering shadows. And where each lies with his true love, quiet as dreams are deep. Every meadow and tree calls to us now to befriend them, Fields where our childhood played, fields where our children play. Lanes where we walked with those who cry to our hearts to defend them — England, my country, speak to each of your sons to-day ! WAR VERSE 85 Trampled and desecrate now are the foreign woodlands and meadows, Scarred with the flame of war the lanes where the Mamand wooed, Dark is the Flemish land with fiendish implacable shadows ; Greedy gorgons of guns stand there where the home- steads stood. Not for our country alone, our darling, our mistress, our treasure, But for the Flemish home-land, loved of her noble sons, And for the fields of France, our brother's glory and pleasure — God give us grace to face the shells and the gas, the guns! For oh ! if their case were ours, if the green of our Eng- lish meadows Were red with our children's blood, what should we hold back then? If the liglit of our English fields were black with the German shadows, What would the world be worth to us who are English men? Summer is soft and sweet in the downs and the woods and the meadows. Love calls soft from the lanes, with grain are the fields alight . . . God, give me nobler dreams, transfigure my heart's hid shadows. Make me Thv Knight, to fight for the Right in the light of Thy Alight ! E. Nesbit. The New Witness^, 86 WAR VERSE CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES ["/ have once more to remark upon the devotion to ditty, courage, and contempt of danger which has char- acterised the work of the Chaplains of the Army through- out this campaign." — Sir John French in the Neuve Chapelle Despatch.] Ambassador of Christ you go Up to the very gates of Hell, Through fog of powder, storm of shell, To speak your Master's message : " Lo, The Prince of Peace is with you still. His peace be with you, His goodwill." It is not small, your priesthood's price, To be a man and yet stand by. To hold your life whilst others die, To bless, not share the sacrifice. To watch the strife and take no part — You with the fire at your heart. ' But yours, for our great Captain Christ To know the sweat of agony, The darkness of Gethsemane, In anguish for these souls unpriced. Vicegerent of God's pity you, A sword must pierce your own soul through. In the pale gleam of new-born day Apart in some tree-shadowed place. Your altar but a packing-case. Rude as the shed where Mary lay. Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod. You bring the kneeling soldier God. WAR VERSE 87 As sentinel you guard the gate 'Twixt life and death, and unto death Speed the brave soul whose failing breath Shudders not at the grip of Fate, But answers, gallant to the end, " Christ is the Word— and I His friend." Then God go with you, priest of God, For all is well and shall be well. What though you tread the roads of Hell, Your Captain these same ways has trod. Abo\e the anguish and the loss Still lloats the ensign of His Cross. W. M. Letts. The Spectator. 88 WAR VERSE " LE POILU DE CARCASSONNE " The poilus of France on the Western Front are brave as brave can be, Whether they hail from rich Provence or from ruined Picardie ; It's the self-same heart from the lazy Loire and the busy banks of Seine, Undaunted by perpetual mud or cold or gas or pain ; And all are as gay as men know how^ w^hose wealth and friends are gone, But the gayest of all is a little white dog that came from Carcassonne. He was brought as a pup by a Midi man to a sector along the Aisne, But his man laid the wire one pitch-black night and never came back again. The pup stood by with one ear down and the other a question mark, And at times he licked his dead friend's face and at times he tried to bark, Till the listening sentry heard the sound, and when the daylight shone He looked abroad and cried, " Bon Giiieii! C'est le poUu de Carcassonne! " So the dead man's copains kept the dog on the strength of the company. And whoever went short it was not the pup, though a greedy pup was he ; They gave him their choicest bits of singe and drops of pinard too; He was warm and safe when he crept beneath a cloak of horizon-blue ; WAR VERSE 89 They clipped fresh brisqitcs in his rough white coat as the weary months dragged on, And all the sector knows him now as le Po'ilu dc Car- cassonne. And in return he keeps their hearts from that haunting foe, Vcnnui; He's their plaything, friend, and sentry too, and a lover of devilry ; He helps them to hunt out rats or Boches ; he burrows and sniffs for mines. And he growls when the murderous shrapnel flies scream- ing above the lines ; His little black nose is a-quiver with glee whenever a raid is on, And they say with pride, " C'est la guerre elle-meme, notrc Poilu dc Carcassonne! " There was none more glad when they went to rest in their billet, a ruined shack, Rut when they returned to the front-line trench he was just as pleased to be back; He's the spirit of fun itself, and so when other men feel blue, His friends remark, " Le cafard, quoi ? On Vconnah pas chcz nous! " So when you drink to the valiant French and the glorious fights they've won Just raise your glass to a little wdiite dog that came from Carcassonne. launch. 90 • WAR VERSE ALL THIS IS ENDED These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colors of the earth. These had seen movement, and heard music ; known Slumber and waking ; loved ; gone proudly friended ; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended. There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies all day. And after, Frost with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wondering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night, Rupert Brooke. WAR VERSE 91 A GRAVE IN FLANDERS Here in the marshland, past the battered bridge, One of a hundred grains untimely sown, Here, with his comrades of the hard-won ridge He rests, unknown. His horoscope had seemed so plainly drawn — School triumphs, earned apace in work and play; Friendships at will; then love's delightful dawn And mellowing day. Home fostering hope; some service to the State; Benignant age ; then the long tryst to keep Where in the yew-tree shadow congregate His fathers sleep. Was here the one thing needful to distil From life's alembic, through this holier fate, The man's essential soul, the hero w-ill ? We ask ; and wait. Lord Crewe, The Harrovian. 92 WAR VERSE DIES IRAK Patience: a little more and then the Day Which hurls us 'gainst the Foe in deadly strife. We know the price our Fathers had to pay That bought for us, their sons, a larger life, And if we give our all we give no more than they. Through Sacrifice the path of Duty lies ; The Sacrifice we willingly have made And yielded up our homes and all we prize To vindicate the right, and undismayed Fight, whilst aloft the British battle emblem flies. So let the Day come soon ; we will not boast Nor shriek against the Foe hysteric hate. In silence we patrol our hallowed coast Or search the wintry Northern Seas which Fate Hath given us to hold against the foreign host. Visions of gardens fair where once we trod. Whispers of voices now and ever dear Haunt us too much perchance : we kiss the rod And murmur, as our Destiny draws near. This prayer, " Quit ye like men and leave the rest to God." B. H. W. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 93 PORTSMOUTH BELLS A lazy sea came washing in Right through the Harbor mouth, Where gray and silent, half asleep, The lords of all the oceans keep, West, East, and North and South. The Summer sun spun cloth of gold Upon the twinkling sea. And little t.b.d.'s lay close, Stern near to stern and nose to nose, And slumbered peacefully. Oh, bells of Portsmouth Town, Oh, bells of Portsmouth Town, You rang of peace upon the seas Before the leaves turned brown. A grayish sea goes sweeping in Beyond the boom to-day ; The ilarbor is a cold, clear space. For far beyond the Solent's race The gray-flanked cruisers play. For it's oh ! the long, long night up North, The sullen twilit day, Where Portsmouth men cruise up and down, And all alone in Portsmouth Town Arc women left to pray. Oh, bells of Portsmouth Town, Oh, bells of Portsmouth Town, What will ye ring when once again The green leaves turn to brown? Punch. 94 WAR VERSE WE HOPE TO WIN " We hope to win " ? By God's help, " Yes " ; Though of the " when " no man may guess, Since there must yet be weary strain, Alternate joy, alternate pain. Till Victory come, at end, to bless ! But there are other wars that press, Wars bred of fulness and excess. Which — if we would our place maintain — We hope to win ! There is the war with selfishness — A sluggish fiend that doubts distress ; With hearts that fail and lips that feign ; With vice and drink and greed of gain — These are the wars in which, not less. We hope to win ! Austin Dobson. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 95 THE NEW MARS I war against the folly that is War, The sacrifice that pity hath not stayed, The Great Delusion men have perished for, The lie that hath the souls of men betrayed: I war for justice and for human right, Against the lawless tyranny of Might. A monstrous cult has held the world too long : The worship of a Moloch that hath slain Remorselessly the young, the brave, the strong, — Indifferent to the unmeasured pain. The accumulated horror and despair. That stricken Earth no longer wills to bear. My goal is peace, — not peace at any price, While yet ensanguined jaws of Evil yawn Hungry and pitiless : Nay, peace were vice I'ntil the cruel dragon-teeth be drawn, And the wronged victims of Oppression be Delivered from its hateful rule, and free ! When comes that hour, resentment laid aside. Into a ploughshare will I beat my sword ; The weaker Nations' strength shall be my pride, Their gladness my exceeding great reward; And not in vain shall be the tears now shed. Nor vain the service of the gallant dead. * •¥ if in Hi ^ I war against the folly that is War, The futile sacrifice that naught hath stayed, The Great Delusion men have perished for. The lie that hath the souls of men betrayed: For faith I war, humanity, and trust ; For peace on earth — a lasthuj peace, and just! Florence Earli-: Coati:s. The Athenaeum. 96 WAR VERSE RHEIMS CATHEDRAL Long centuries ago a holy man Sang out his soul in ecstasy to God; So sweet the rapture of the music ran An angel froze it to the hallowed sod. Love, faith and worship all took form on high, And Rheims Cathedral towered to the sky. It stood through all the ages of mischance, Knew kings and peasants, lords and ladies fair; It looked upon the sainted Maid of France, And sinners found a sanctuary there. So for the sake of His most holy name The ancient vandals spared it from the flame. Then came the Germans with the breath of hell. The walls were melted and the music fled. For all the beauty that men loved so well The Demon's discord pierced the air instead, And what was once a prayer to God's far Throne Stands now an awful blasphemy in stone. McLandburgh Wilson. The Bookman. WAR VERSE 97 BATTLE Before Action I sit beside the brazier's glow, And, drowsing in the heat, I dream of daffodils that blow, And lambs that frisk and bleat — Black lambs that frolic in the snow Among the daffodils. In a far orchard that I know Beneath the Malvern hills. Next year the daffodils will blow, And lambs will frisk and bleat: But I'll not feel the brazier's glow, Nor any cold or heat. / / The Question I wonder if the old cow died or not. Gey bad she was the night I left, and sick. Dick reckoned she would mend. He knows a lot — At least he fancies so himself, does Dick. Dick knows a lot. But maybe I did wrong To leave the cow to him, and come away. Over and over like a silly song These words keep humming in m} head all day. And all T think of, as I face the foe And take my lucky chance of being shot, Is this — that if I'm hit, I'll never know Till Doomsday if the old cow died or not. 98 WAR VERSE / / / Deaf This day last year I heard the curlew calling By Hallypike, And the clear tinkle of hill-waters falling Down slack and syke. But now I cannot hear the shrapnel's screaming, The screech of shells: And if again I see the blue lough gleaming Among the fells, Unheard of me will be the curlew's calling By Hallypike, And the clear tinkle of hill-waters falling Down slack and syke. The Dancers All day beneath the hurtling shells Before my burning eyes Hover the dainty demoiselles — The peacock dragon-flies. Unceasingly they dart and glance Above the stagnant stream — And I am fighting here in France As in a senseless dream — A dream of shattering black shells That hurtle overhead, And dainty dancing demoiselles Above the dreamless dead. Under Fire We eat our breakfast lying on our backs, Because the shells were screeching overhead. I bet a rasher to a loaf of bread That Hull United would beat Halifax When Jimmy Stainthorpe played full back instead WAR VERSE 99 Of Billy Bradford. Ginger raised his head, And cursed, and took the bet — and dropt back dead. We eat our breakfast lying on our backs. Because the shells were screeching overhead. The Messages " I cannot quite remember . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench — and three Whispered their dying messages to me . . ." Back from the trenches, more dead than alive. Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee. He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly : • " I cannot quite remember . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench — and three W hispered their dying messages to me . " Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive — Waiting a word in silence patiently . . . But what they said, or who their friends may be " I cannot c|uite remember . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench — and three Whispering their dying messages to me . . ." Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. The Nation. loo WAR VERSE THE BALLAD OF THE " EASTERN CROWN " I've sailed in 'ookeis plenty since first I went to sea, An' sail or steam, an' good or bad, was all alike to me ; There's some 'ave tried to starve me, an' some 'ave tried to drown. . . . But I never met the equal o' the Eastern Crown. 'Er funnel's like a chimley, 'er sides is like a tub ; An' pay is middlin' scanty, an' likewise so is grub; She's 'ard to beat for steerin' bad, she's 'ard to beat for grime. An' rollin' is 'er 'obby — oh, she's rollin' all the time ! Rollin' down to Singapore — rollin' up to Maine — Rollin' round to Puget Sound, an' then 'ome again ! A long roll, an' a short roll, an' a roll in between — An' the crew cursin' rosy when she ships it green ! We sailed for Philadelphia, New York, an' Montreal, Dischargin' general cargo at our various ports o' call ; We knocked about a year or so 'tween Callao an' Nome, An' then to Portland, Oregon, to load wi' deals for 'ome. She's met with accidents a few (which is 'er usual way) ; She scraped the bowsprit off a barque in San Fran- cisco Bay; She's shed propeller blades an' plates wherever she 'as been . . . An' last she's fouled 'er bloomin' screw on a German submarine ! Rollin' in the sunshine— rollin' in the rain — Rollin' up the Channel — an' we're 'ome again ! A long roll, an' a short roll, an' a roll in between — An' the crew cursin' rosy when she ships it green ! WAR VERSE loi As on the 'igh an' draughty bridge I stood my wheci one day, " If we should sight a submarine " (I 'eard the old man say), " I'd do as Admirals retired an' other folks 'ave said, I'd run ihe old Red Duster up an' ring ' Full speed ahead ! ' I'd sink before I'd 'eave 'er to or 'aul my colors down: By gosh, the}'ll catch a Tartar if they catch the /:a^/- er)i Crown! I've thought it out both 'igh an' low, an' this seems best to me — Pursoo a zig-zag course " (he says) " an' see what I shall see ! " Rollin' through the Doldrums— rollin' in the foam — Rollin' by the Fastnet — an' we're nearly 'ome ! A long roll, an' a short roll, an' a roll in between — An' the crew cursin' rosy when she ships it green ! 'E said it an' 'e meant it, an' 'e acted as 'e said, When sure enough we sighted one abeam o' Lizard 'Fad ; You should 'ave 'eard the engines grunt — you should 'ave seen 'er roll, She was beatin' all 'er records as they shovelled on the coal . . . They missed 'er by a spittin' length — 'er rollin' served 'er well ; But it served 'er better after, as you're goin' to 'ear me tell; For she some'ow n;llcd 'erself atop o' the bloomin' submarine An' the oil upon the waters was the last of it we seen. I02 WAR VERSE Rollin' up to London Town (an' down by the bow !) — Rollin' 'ome to Surrey Docks — ain't we 'eroes now? A long roll, an' a short roll, an' a roll m between — An' the crew cursin' rosy when she ships it green ! C. Fox Smith. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 103 TO THE MEMORY OF FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER Born JiDic 24th, 1850. Died on Service June 5th, igi6. Soldier of England, you w ho served her well And in that service, silent and apart, Achieved a name that never lost its spell Over your country's heart ; — Who saw your work accomplished ere at length Shadows of evening fell, and creeping Time Had bent your stature or resolved the strength That kept its manhood prime ; — Great was your life, and great the end you made, As through the plunging seas that whelmed your head Your spirit passed, unconquered, unafraid. To join the gallant dead. Rut not by death that spell could pass away That fixed our gaze upon the far-off goal. Who, by your magic, stand in arms to-day A nation one and whole. Now doubly pledged to bring your vision true Of darkness vantiuished and the dawn set free In that full triumph which your faith foreknew But might not live to see. Owi:n Si-:aman. Punch. / I04 WAR VERSE THE OLD SOLDIER Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven, God bids the old soldier they all adored Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven, A happy doorkeeper in the House of the Lord. Lest it abash them, the strange new splendor, Lest they affright them, the new robes clean ; Here's an old face, now, long-tried and tender, A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in. " My boys ! " He greets them : and heaven is homely. He their great captain in days gone o'er ; . Dear is the friend's face, honest and comely, Waiting to welcome them by the strange door. Katharine Tynan. The Cornhill Magazine. WAR VERSE 105 LAUREL AND CYrRESS I watched him swinging down the street, Lhe fairest lad in all the line, His kilt and khaki, braw and neat, My iirst-born — mine! He sleeps beneath the blood-red sod — A letter from the King to say : " Fallen in Honor's Cause." . . . Thank God ! But ay ! But ay ! J. Napier Milne. The Bookman. io6 WAR VERSE IN LAST YEAR'S CAMP They stole the gorse's glory, they scared the foals at play, They yearned for Tipperary on every woodland wav ; Their tent peaks pricked the dawning, their bugles shcok the dew. While the encamped Division became the men we knew. The tents were struck at twilight, the pipers skirled a cry, The stars came out in Heaven to bid the lads good-bye, That night they took the Old Road, the straightest road that runs, Deep widi the dust of armies, and graven by their guns. Now tentless lie the moorlands, the glades most lonely are; But still the russet ponies stand solemnly afar; And still I think they hearken, and know the sound oi men — The marching tramp of heroes we shall not see again. Now leave we to its glory the camp of yesterday, Vex not its echoes lightly- — their souls may come this way, The lads who cut the bracken when beechen leaves were red, And, ere the cuckoo's calling, were England's Deathless Dead! Mary Adair Macdonald. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 107 HELPING [" We have, through no wish of our own, become en- gaged in what Bismarck described as the task of ' rolling up the map of Europe ' ; and it is a task in which duly recjuires everybody, civilian as well as soldier, to assist."] Half a score of gutter-snipes, passing Downing-street, Banging martial music out of empty salmon-tins ; Underwriters, claiming special knowledge of the Fleet And of what will happen when the Naval War begins ; Youngsters narrow in the chest, groggy at the knees ; Never wrought by Nature to march boldl}' in the ranks; Laborers with 'orny 'ands ; scholars with degrees ; Waitresses from bun-shops, and their patrons from the banks — Everybody's help'uuj: not zvitli boastful clamor, But zi'itli grim desire to "see this through "; In no greed of glory, knowing not of glamour (Yea, without a " D.S.O." m viezL'!), But the very finest is a little foreign chap Who's left his job to help us as we're rolling up the map! War's a thing of modern make, run on modern lines (Kitchener and I>onaparte could never have agreed!) And the\' serve the State who're working down the mines, (letting up the coal that cotton-mills may need. Scavengers and statesmen, bishops and boy-scouts Cannot all be in the expeditionary force, .Sf) they're left to " carry on," scorning fears and doubts, Just as though the world moved in its ordinary course. //// of them arc helping: just as those are serving \\ ho can only stand aside and ■rcail. Knoii'infi that impatience makes them undeserving To escape the menaces of Fate. But the little foreigner zi'ho came zviihout a call Is helping in a business that isn't his at all ! io8 WAR VERSE Jean, and Mr. Atkins, Ivan from the East, Long have learnt to hold them prepared for sudden strife. But their little friend seemed never in the least Likely to be troubled in his quiet, peaceful life; Yet he's borne their burden, and defied their foe. Thinking more of honor than of what he'll have to pay ; Seen his fields down-trodden, his burning roof-tree glow. Then turned him bravely east again, to bar the blood- splashed way. All good men are helping: hut the aid most knightly Comes from him who's made most sacrifice, Heeding not the quarrel — only this, that, rightly, Pledges can't be broken at a price! He's shown the world, from Aldershot to Moscozu and Sedan, That Belgium's little soldier is a great, big-hearted man! P. B. The Westminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 109 SONG OF THE ZEPPELIN The ni£][ht-\vind is humming, My engines are ihiuniniing, Swift as a spark Through the night and the dark I am silently speeding; Hovering grim and gray Over my human prey, Sowing the seeds of dearth Over the stricken earth, Where nations lie bleeding. Ship without sails am I, Bird without wings am I, Lord of the gales am I, Terror of Kings am I, — I am the Zeppelin ! The cities are sleeping. Their searchlights are sweeping, Into the skies I advance, I arise, W'here the distance grows vaster ; See where the sky grows red, Lit by the bombs I shed — Stealthy and swift, I fling them my gift. Death and disaster! Mark well the flight of me. Ships ! Have a care of me ! Shrink at the sight of me! Cities ! I'jcware of mc I I am the Zepi)clin ! V 101. 1. 1 I). Chapman. The Bookman. no WAR VERSE BELGIUAl When I bethink how nations wax and wane, These Hke ripe fruit slow-cankered from inside, These falling swift from overweening pride That held the gentle heart in high disdain, This battered to its knees to rise again, One thing alone above the surging tide And flux of things seems surely to abide, The soul that doth invincible remain. To you, heroic Belgium, beaten down Because you trusted in a neighbor's word. Has come the terrible night, but comes the morn. Wasted with fire and bleeding from the sword. Proudly you wear self-sacrifice for crown And find your soul immortally reborn. H. D. Rawnsley. The Times. WAR VERSE III FAREWELL Mother, with unhowed head Hear thou across the sea The farewell of the dead, The dead who died for thee. Greet them again with tender words and grave, For, saving thee, themselves they could not save. To keep the house unharmed Their fathers built so fair, Deeming endurance armed Pietter than brute despair, They found the secret of the word that saith, Service is sweet, for all true life is death." So greet thou well thy dead Across the homeless sea. And be thou comforted Because they died for thee. Far off they served, but now their deed is done For evermore their life and thine are one. Henry Newholt, 112 WAR VERSE Punch WIRELESS There sits a little demon Above the Admiralty, To take the news of seamen Seafaring on the sea; So all the folk aboard-ships Five hundred miles aw^ay Can pitch it to their Lordships At any time of day. The cruisers prowl observant; Their crackling whispers go ; The demon says, " Your servant," And lets their Lordships know; A fog's come down off Flanders? A something showed off Wick? The captains and commanders Can speak their Lordships quick. The demon sits a-waking; Look up above Whitehall — E'en now, mayhap, he's taking The Greatest Word of all ; From smiling folk aboard-ships He ticks it off the reel : — ' An' may it please your Lordships, A Fleet's put out o' Kiel ! " WAR VERSE 113 TO ALL OUR DEAD Between the heart and the lips we stay our words and remember The long tight in the sodden fields and the ultimate pledge they render Whom we never forget ; and afraid lest by chance we betray and belie them We call up«jn you that ride before, who rode lately by them, Lest we make you ashamed when you ride with the valiant of all the earth In the armies of God. Lo ! we call upon you to stand as sentinel over us, You from our griefs set free while the shadows still cover us From the heart that fails and the heart that hates alike deliver us, From the frenzy that stabs at the weak divide and dis- sever us, Keeping our faith as you kept the line, holding the coward's cruel mind, The final treason, afar. Death for you is a sorrow endured, a thing passed over They are facing it still, son and brother and lover; They keep the line, and we keep our faith, and the soul of a peoi)le lies between us. From fear of phantoms, from a covetous dream stand near and screen us. Watch with us, watch through the days of war;— then, pass tf) your place With the armies of God. Lucy Mastkkman. The Nation £14 WAR VERSE LITANY IN WAR TIME Now that the heavens are opened, Now that the call has come, Now that Hell's driven legions Strike the old voices dumb ; Now that Thy hand is upon us, Now that our trial begins, Lord God of love as of battles — Lord, forgive us our sins ! The naked we have not clothed, The hungry we have not fed, The women degraded and outcast, The children ciying for bread! Vanity, sloth and falsehood. Luxury, greed and fear. Help, Lord, to cast them behind us, Now that Thy Word is clear. Set not our blindness before Thee! Open our eyes to see — To see in this darkness the glory Of Thy great peace to be ! If for our sins we must perish. Grant us the grace. Most High — If for our sins we must perish, — Yet for this cause to die ! High above fears and chances Our England that is to be ! Peace upon earth, goodwill among men, Justice and Liberty. High in the raging storm-w'ind The banner of England streams : England I our city of heart's desire, The England of our dreams. WAR VERSE 115 Thou wilt not fail that luii^jland, Living or dying, we know. Lord, we have nothing to fear from mischance, Nothing to fear from the foe : Wrapped in their own desolation, By terror and death bestrid; Lord, in that hour have mercy on them Who knew not what they did. Now that the heavens are opened. Now that the trump is blown. Lord, Thou wilt search the nations. Lord. Thou wilt know Thine own ! High in the raging storm-wind The banner of England streams: I-jigland ! our city of heart's desire, The England of our dreams ! J. W. A. The New Witness. ii6 WAR VERSE TO A SKYLARK BEHIND OUR TRENCHES Thou little voice ! Thou happy sprite, How didst thou gain the air and light — That sing'st so merrily? How could such little wings Give thee thy freedom from these dense And fetid tombs — these burrows whence We peer like frightened things? In the free sky Thou sail'st while here we crawl and creep And fight and sleep And die. How canst thou sing while Nature lies Bleeding and torn beneath thine eyes, And the foul breath Of rank decay hangs like a shroud Over the fields the shell hath ploughed ? How canst thou sing, so gay and glad, While all the heavens are filled with death And all the World is Mad? Yet sing! For at thy song The tall trees stand up straight and strong And stretch their twisted arms. And smoke ascends from pleasant farms And the shy flowers their odors give. Once more the riven pastures smile, And for a while We live. E. DE S. France, May, ipi6. The Times. WAR VERS£ ii7 OLD WOMEN Faint ajjainst the twilig^ht, dim against the evening, Fading into darkness against the lapping sea, She sailed away from harbor, from safety into danger, The ship that took him from me — my sailor boy from me. He went away to join her, from me that loved and bore him. Loved him ere I bore him, that was all the world to me. " Xo time for leave, mother, must be back this evening, Time for our patrol again, across the winter sea." Six times over, since he went to join her, Came he to see me, to run back again. " r\jur hours' leave, mother — still got the steam up, Going on patrol to-night — the old East lane. " Seven times lucky, and perhaps we'll have a battle, Then I'll bring a medal back and give it you to keep." And his name is in the paper, with close upon a hundred, Who lie there beside him, many fathom deep. And beside him in the paper, somebody is writing, — God! but how I hate him — a liar and a fool, — " Where is the British Navy — is it staying in the harbors? Has the Nelson spirit in the fleet begun to cool? " Klaxon. Blackwood's Magazine. ii8 WAR VERSE THE BRIDGE BUILDERS They have builded magnificent bridges Where the nation's highways go; O'er perilous mountain ridges, And where great rivers flow. Wherever a hnk was needed between the new and the known They have left their marks of Progress, in iron and steel and stone. There was never a land too distant, Nor ever a way too wide. But some man's mind, insistent, Reached out to the other side. They cleared the way, these heroes, for the march of future years: The march was Civilization — and they werje its Pioneers. Now through a nation's sinning They are building a bridge so wide That those at the work's beginning Scarce dreamed of the other side. They spared no thought for a future with the need for " now " so plain ; They sowed for others' reaping — they have died for others' gain. And what has gone to the making? Courage and sacrifice. And a thirst that knows no slaking For the Right at any price; Comradeship caring nothing for riches or rank or birth, For builders like these build only with things of eternal worth. WAR VERSE 119 Be comforted, wives and molhers ! Your men, in iheir splendid youth, With a thousand thousand others, Have opened the ua} for Truth, They are huilding into a future where terror and strife shall cease; And the span of the bridge is Honor, and the goal that it leads to — Peace. Evelyn Simms. The Bookman. I20 WAR VERSE MATER DOLOROSA What have I given thee, England, beloved of me? I have no gold for thy desolate, I have no spear to guard thy gate. My hands are weak on the harp of fate In the hour of threnody. Yet I have given, I ; And, England, my gifts lie Far from thee and thy sacred strand. I have given the hand that held my hand. The feet that once on my palm could stand, The hopes I was nourished by. All that I had, I give. The life that I bade live. The heart that my heart made to beat, The lips erstwhile on my lips so sweet — These have I given ; is it not meet To have striven that thou mayst strive? The clay of France doth shrine This only gift of mine; England, be it not made in vain. Be but thy glory great as our pain. We are glad to have given — would give again The light of our days for thine ! The British Review. WAR VERSE 121 LIFE'S FAVORITE Life she loved him — she seemed the slave, Slave of his lightest and least desire; And so to his glorious youth she gave Glory that youths admire. Gifts she gave him of strength and skill, Gave him lordship of teams and crews, With the Love of the Game and, belter still, Of playing it, win or lose. An Eton spell and an Oxford spell, Pride of tradition and lore of shop. Worship of friends who spake him well, With the run of the Club and Pop. All good pleasures w^ould come his way, All good men give him nod for nod ; His laugh and his greeting haunt to-day Staircase E in the (Juad. * * ***** Then why did her favors end so soon? Did she forsake, betray, forget. When she sent him with his platoon Over the parapet? Was it l)ecause he showed her praise In his glowing self, that the fear would strike Of faded charms in the plcasureless days. And torture her, lover-like? Or was she moved b}' a greater thought. And dealt with him still as friend with friend, In bringing the wonderful work she li.ul wrought To its only possible end? Al.lKKl) C"t»(li KANK. The Conihill Mayacine. 122 WAR VERSE THE CASUALTY LIST Here in happy England the fields are steeped in quiet, .Saving for larks' song and drone of bumble bees ; The deep lanes are decked with roses all a-riot, With bryony and vetch and ferny tapestries. O here a maid v^^ould linger to hear the blackbird's fluting, And here a lad might pause by wind-berippled wheat, The lovers in the bat's-light would hear the brown owl's hooting Before the latticed lights of home recalled their lagging feet. But over there in France the grass is torn and trodden, Our pastures grow moon daisies, but theirs are strewn with lead. The fertile, kindly fields are harassed and blood-sodden, The sheaves they bear for harvesting will be our garnered dead. But here the lads of England, in peril of advancing. Have laid their splendid lives down, ungrudging of the cost ; The record — just their names here — means a moment's careless glancing. But who can tell the promise, the fulfilment of our lost? Here in happy England, the Summer pours her treasure Of grasses, of flowers before our heedless feet. The swallow-haunted streams meander at their pleasure Through loosestrife and rushes and plumey meadow- sweet. Yet how shall we forget them, the young men, the splendid. Who left this golden heritage, who put the Summer by. Who kept for us our England inviolate, defended, But by their passing made for us December of July ? W. L. 7 he IVestminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 123 THE TEST OF BATTLE We are not good at shouting in the street, At waving flags or tossing caps in air; We take our triumphs as we take defeat With scarce a liint of having turned a hair; And so our pride to-day Dechnes to boom itself the German way. Yet we are proud because at last, at last We look upon the dawn of our desire; Because the weary waiting-time is passed And we have tried our temper in the fire ; And, proving word by deed, Have kept the faith we pledged to France at need. But most because, from mine and desk and mart, Springing to face a task undreamed before Oiu- men, inspired to play their prentice part. Like soldiers lessoned in the school of war, True to their breed and name Went flawless through the fierce baptismal flame. And he who brought these armies into life. And on them set the imi)ress of his will — Could he be moved by sound of mortal strife There where he lies, their Captain, cold and still Lnder the shrouding tide, How would his great heart stir and glow with pride ! Owen Seaman. Punch. 124 WAR VERSE WAR RISKS " Let go aft "... and out she slides. Pitching when she meets the tides. . . . She for whom our cruisers keep Lordly vigil in the deep. . . . Sink or swim, lads, war or no, Let the poor old hooker go ! Soon, hull down, will England's shore, Smudged and faint, be seen no more: Soon the following gulls return Where the friendly docklights burn. ,, . , Soon the cold stars, climbing high, March across the empty sky. . . . Empty seas beyond her bow (Lord, she's on her lonesome now!) When the white fog, stooping low. Folds in darkness friend and foe . . . When the fast great liners creep Veiled and silent through the deep . . . When the hostile searchlight's eye Sweeps across the midnight sky . , . Lord of light and darkness, then Stretch Thy wing o'er merchantmen ! When the waters known of old Death in dreadful shape may hold . . . When the mine's black treachery Secret walks the insulted sea . . . (Lest the people wait in vain For their cattle and their grain). Since Thy name is mercy, then, Lord, be kind to merchantmen ! C. Fox Smith. The Westminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 125 TO GREAT BRITAIN Britain ! you with a heart of flame One as in days gone by. You who honor your Nelson's name, How could you hear the word of shame Nor rise and give it the lie ! Better endure war's worst of ills, The woe of a hundred hghts, Than cower behind your banks and tills And smug with your money, your mines, your mills, Forswear a neighbor's rights. For how could you hope for a wide world's trust If, traitor by land and sea, You had let French lilies lie in the dust, Nor challenged for peace the war-lord's lust And struck for a Europe free? Fight and in hope, for battle is banned. The world shall yet rejoice, For the peoples rise in wrath to demand, Henceforth no war shall trouble the Irmd Except at a people's v(jice. H. D. Rawxsley, The English Review. 126 WAR VERSE MY SON Here is his little cambric frock That I laid by in lavender so sweet, And here his tiny shoe and sock, I made with loving care for his dear feet. I fold the frock across my breast, And in imagination, ah, my sweet, Once more I hush my babe to rest, And once again I warm those little feet. Where do those strong young feet now stand ? In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain, Or marching through the desert sand To some dread place that they may never gain. God guide him and his men to-day. Though death may lurk in any tree or hill, His brave young spirit is their stay, Trusting in that they'll follow where he will. They love him for his tender heart. When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part — Of cowardice alone he is afraid. I ask no honors on the field. That other men have won as brave as he, I only pray that God may shield My son, and bring him safely back to me. Ada Tyrrell. The Saturday Review. WAR VERSE 127 GOLD STRIPES A Canadian Mother Speaks My Bert 'as just come 'ome again; 'e walks a little lame, But thank the Lord 'e's got 'is eyes, 'is face is just the same ; I'm that glad the shrapnel miss'd it, I could look at 'im all day. Though I'd love 'im just as dearly if the 'alf was shot away. 'E ain't so reg'lar 'andsome, and 'e ain't so ugly too, Rut just an average looker, the same as me and you. And lliere's not a prouder woman in Alberta, I believe, W'hen I go out walkin' with 'im, with the gold stripes on 'is sleeve. There's one 'e says 'e got by bein' just a bloomin' fool ; Fair mad 'e was that day the Boches bombed an infant school. There was cover for the takin', but 'c couldn't stitp to take it ; Through blood and tears 'e saw their line, and knew 'e 'ad to break it. The other times, 'e says, 'twas just 'is duty that 'e done. And, once, I know, the orficers they thank'd 'im one by one. .Sf) every day I thank the Lord for what we do receive. When I walk with l>ert in khaki, with the gold stripes on 'is sleeve. pLORENXt: A. ViCAKS. The Westminster Gazette. 128 WAR VERSE HIS MAJESTY'S MINE-SWEEPERS When this cruel war is over and the full history told. What a tale of deeds upon the sea that story will unfold, Of men who faced a sudden death in many an awful form, When they boldly braved for Britain's sake the battle and the storm ! We are thankful for our battleships that proudly ride the wave, And well we know the men aboard are the bravest of the brave, That our cruisers and destroyers with ever-ready guns Are always keeping watch and ward against the prowling Huns. But do we all remember the glorious work of these His Majesty's mine-sweepers who go clearing of the seas Of dark and grim and deadly shapes that have hurled to the deep Many hundred gallant fighting men now sleeping their last sleep? The fisher-lads of Britain have left trawling nets and lines To handle the steel hawser and go groping for the mines. The hardy men from merchant ships have donned the Navy blue. And are helping with stout hearts and hands to pull the country through. They may not meet an enemy exchanging blow for blow, But one that lurks beneath their keels wherever they may go. There comes no stir of battle their spirits to inflame, Yet day by day a deadly risk is with them all the same. WAR VERSE 129 So may God bless these gallant men who keep our tide- ways free. And never lliiicii from duty in all perils of the sea, Who, be they tishers, merchant jacks,or Royal Naval tars, Are saviors of our Empire in the greatest of all wars. R. O'D. Ross-Lew IN. Chambers's Journal. I30 WAR VERSE THE HEART-CRY She turned the page of wounds and death With trembUng fingers. In a breath The gladness of her Hfe became Naught but a memory and a name. Farewell! Farewell! I might not share The perils it was yours to dare. Dauntless you fronted death: for me Rests to face life as fearlessly. F. W. BOURDILLON, WAR VERbE 131 NO MAN'S LAND No Man's Land is an eerie sight At early dawn in the pale gray light. Never a house and never a hedge In No Man's Land from edge to edge, And never a living soul walks there To taste the fresh of the morning air. ' Only some lumps of rotting clay, That were friends or foemen yesterday. What are the bounds of No Man's Land? You can see them clearly on either hand, A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun. Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run From the Eastern hills to the Western sea, Through field or forest o'er river and lea ; N(j man may pass them, l)Ut aim you well And Death rides across on the bullet or shell. Rut No Man's Land is a goblin sight When patrols crawl over at dead o' night; Hochc ov I>ritish, I5elgian or French, You dice with death when you cross the trench. \\ hen the " rapid," like fire-flies in the dark. Flits down the para])ct spark by spark, And you dro|) for cf)\er to keep your head With your face on the breast of the four months dead. The man who ranges in No Man's Land Is dogged by the shadows on either hand When the star-shell's flare, as it bin"sts o'erhead, Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead, 132 WAR VERSE And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch May answer the cUck of your safety-catch. For the lone patrol, with his hfe in his hand, Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land. J. H. Knight-Adkin, Capt. Glosters. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 133 VOLUNTEER / Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent Toilins: at ledjjers in a city gray, Thinking that so his days would drift away With no lance broken in life's tournament: Yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes The gleaming eagles of the legions came. And horsemen, charging under phantom skies, Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme. And now those waiting dreams are satisfied; From twilight into spacious dawn he went; His lance is broken ; but he lies content With that high hour, in which he lived and died. And falling thus he wants no recompense, Who found his battle in the last resort ; Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence. Who goes to join the men of Agincourt. Herbert Asquith. 134 WAR VERSE THE LITTLE OLD ROAD There's a breath of May in the breeze On the httle old road; May in hedges and trees, May, the red and the white, May to left and to right Of the little old road. There's a ribbon of grass either side Of the little old road; It's a strip just so wide, A strip nobody owns. Where a man's weary bones When he feels getting old May lie crushing the gold Of the silverweed flower For a long lazy hour By the little old road. There's no need to guide the old mare On the little old road. She knows that just there Is the big gravel pit (How we played in it As mites of boys In our old corduroys !) And that here is the pond With the poplars beyond, And more May — always May Away and away Down the little old road. There's a lot to make a man glad On the little old road (It's the home-going road). And a lot to make him sad. WAR VERSE 135 Ah ! he'd hke to forget, But he can't, not just yet, Willi chai)s still out there. . . . She's si()[)i)ing, the steady old mare. Is it here the road bends ? So the long journey ends At the end of the old road, The little old road. There's some one, you say, at the gate Of the little old house by the road? Is it Mother? Or Kate? And they're not going to mind That, since " Wypers," I'm blind, And the road is a long dark road? Gi:rtrudi-: Vaughan. The New iritness. 136 WAR VERSE I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade ; When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple blossoms fill the air — I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land, And close my eyes and quench my breath — It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed on silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear — But I've a rendezvous with Death, At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year. And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. Alan Seeger. By permission from " Poems by Alan Seeger." Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons. WAR VERSE 137 THE LIVING LINE (March, ipiS) As long as faith and freedom last, And earth goes round the sun, This stands — The Piritish line held fast And so the hght was won. The greatest fight that ever yet lirought all the world to dearth ; A fight of two great nations set To battle for the earth. And one was there with blood aflame To make the earth his tool; And one was there in freedom's name That mercy still should rule. It was a line, a living line Of Britain's gallant youth That fought the Prussian one to nine And saved the world for ruth. That bleeding line, that falling fence, That stubborn ebbing wave, That string of suffering human sense, Shuddered, but never gave. A living line of human flesh, It (|uivered like a brain ; Swarm after swarm came on afresh And crashed, but crashed in vain. Outnumbered by the mightiest foe That ever sought to put The world in chains, they met the blow And fought him foot by foot. 138 WAR VERSE They fought his masses, falHng back, They poured their blood hke wine, And never once the vast attack Smashed through that Hving Une. It held, it held, while all the world Looked on with strangled breath; It held; again, again it hurl'd Man's memory to death. Bleeding and sleepless, dazed and spent. And bending like a bow. Backward the lads of Britain went Their faces to the blow. And day went by, and night came in, And when the moon was gone Murder burst out with fiercer din, And still the fight went on. Day after day, night after night, Outnumbered nine to one, In agony that none may write Those young men held the Hun. And this is their abiding praise No future shall undo : Not once in all those staggering days The avalanche broke thro'. Retreat, retreat, yea, still retreat, But fighting one to nine, Just knowing there was no defeat If they but held the line. Ah, never yet did men more true Or souls more finely wrought From Cressy down to Waterloo Fight as these young men fought. WAR VERSE 139 On whose ^reat hearts the fate of all Mankind was pcnsed that hour Which saw the Prussian War God fall And Christ restored to pow'r. The world shall tell how they stood fast, And how the Tight was won, As long as faith and freedom last And earth goes round the sun. Harold Bi:gbik. The Loiidon Chronicle. 140 WAR VERSE THE MARCH I heard a voice that cried, " Make way for those who died ! " And all the colored crowd like ghosts at morning fled ; And down the waiting road, rank after rank there strode, In mute and measured march a hundred thousand dead. A hundred thousand dead, with firm and noiseless tread, All shadowy-gray yet solid, with faces gray and ghast. And by the house they went, and all their brows were bent Straight forward ; and they passed, and passed, and passed, and passed. But O there came a place, and O there came a face, That clenched my heart to see it, and sudden turned my way; And in the face that turned I saw two eyes that burned, Never- forgotten eyes, and they had things to say. Like desolate stars they shone one moment, and were gone. And I sank down and put my arms across my head, And felt them moving past, nor looked to see the last, In steady silent march, our hundred thousand dead. J. C. Squire. The New Statesman. WAR VERSE 141 THE BROKEN SOLDIER The broken soldier sings and whistles day to dark, lie's but the remnant of a man, maimed and half-blind ; r.ut the soul they could not harm goes singing like the lark, Like the incarnate Joy that will not be conhned. The Lady at the Hall has given him a light task ; He works in the gardens as busy as a bee ; One hand is but a stump and his face a pitted mask; The gay soul goes singing like a bird set free. Whistling and singing like a linnet on wings, The others stop to listen, leaning on the spade; Whole men and comely, they fret at little things. The soul of him's singing like a thrush in a glade. Hither and thither hopping, like Robin on the grass. The soul in the broken man is beautiful and brave; — And while he weeds the pansies and the bright hours pass The bird caught in the cage whistles in joyous stave. Katharine Tynan. The U'cshninstcr Gazette. 142 WAR VERSE THE LONE HAND She took her tide and she passed the Bar with the first o' the morning Hght ; She dipped her flag to the coast patrol at the coming down of the night ; She has left the lights of the friendly shore and the smell of the English land, And she's somewhere South o' the Fastnet now — God help her . . . South o' the Fastnet now, Playing her own lone hand. She is ugly and squat as a ship can be, she was new when the Ark was new, But she takes her chance and she runs her risk as well as the best may do ; And it's little she heeds the lurking death and little she gets of fame, Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now — God help her . . . South o' the Fastnet now. Playing her own lone game. She has played it once, she has played it twice, she has played it times a score ; Her luck and her pluck are the two trump cards that have won her the game before ; And life is the stake where the tin fish run and Deatli is the dealer's name, Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now — God help her . . . South o' the Fastnet now, Playing her own lone game. C. Fox Smith. Punch. WAR VERSE 143 THE TOLL-PAYERS Children, to-day made fatherless, And mothers, mourniiiij; for your sons, — Oh, not from you in your distress Is wrun^ in all its bitterness llie tribute of the guns. You, who are young will soon forget This tragic toll upon the road, In hapj)y years, undreamed of yet, \\ hen }(ju will reap without regret The seed your fathers sowed. And mothers, though you hide despair Deep in your hearts, can you not smile To show that you, whose sons could dare So greatly, can unflinching bear Your burden for a while? Men, who were young when you were young. Walk with you in your evening's shade, And as tlie dark with stars is hung For light, you guard, like jewels strung. Thoughts of the men you made. Recalling for a little space Your happy soldiers, not bereft Of hope that they, in some fair place Of peace, will welcome face to face The mothers that they left. But what remains to us, who knew No memories they did not share, The brothers and the boys who grew Through da)s and years beside us, who Were part of all we were? 144 WAR VERSE For every light is quenched, that shone For us, about Love's diadem. And every hope we dreamed upon, Our future, and our past, is gone Into the dark with them. And gazing on, the tumult clears. Fades, and is gone, — and Life survives. Unveiled by any mist of tears We see the long and empty years* Of our unmenaced lives. When Time will change us, until we Shall be as strangers when we go To greet our own, and though we see Them look for us, we shall not be The friends they used to know. Alison Lindsay. The Cornhill Magazine. WAR VERSE 145 / MORITURI TE SALUTANT In ihis last hour, before ihe bugles blare The summons of the dawn, we turn again To )-ou, dear country, you whom unaware, Throuij;h summer years of idle selfishness. We still have loved — who loved us none the less. Knowing the destined hour would find us men. O thrill and laughter of the busy town ! O flower-valleys, trees against the skies, Wild moor and woodland, glade and sweeping down, O land of our desire! like men asleep W'e have let pass the years, nor felt you creep So close into our heart's dear sanctities. .•so, we are dreamers ; but our dreams are cast Henceforward in a more heroic mould; W^e have kept faith with our immortal past. Knights — we have found the lady of our love, Minstrels — have heard great harmonies, above The lyrics that enraptured us of old. The dawn's aglow with luster of the sun . . . O love, O burning passion, that has made Our day illustrious till its hours are done — Fire our dull hearts, that, in our sun's eclipse. When Death stoops low to kiss us on the lips, He still may find us .singing, unafraid. One thing we know, that love so greatly spent Dies not when lovers die : From hand to hand We pass the torch and perish — well content, If in dark years to come our countrymen I'^eel the divine flame lea]) in them again, And so remember us and understand. I'. 11. II L. The Spectator. 146 WAR VERSE ON PATROL To He went to sea on the long patrol, Away to the East from the Gorton Shoal, But now he's overdue. He signaled me as he bore away A flickering lamp through leaping spray, And darkness then till judgment day, " So long ! Good luck to you ! " He's waiting out on the long patrol. Till the names are called at the muster-roll Of seamen overdue. Far above him, in wind and rain, Another is on patrol again — The gap is closed in the Naval Ghain Where all the links are new. Over his head the seas are white, And the wind is blowing a gale to-night. As if the Storm-King knew, And roared a ballad of sleet and snow To the man that lies on the sand below, A trumpet-song for the winds to blow To seamen overdue. Was it sudden or slow — the death that came? Roaring water or sheets of flame? The end with none to view? No man can tell us the way he died, But over the clouds Valkyries ride To open the gates and hold them wide For seamen overdue. WAR VERSE 147 But whether the end was swift or slow, By the Hand of God, or a German blow, My messmate overdue — You went to Death — and the whisper ran As over the Gates the Iiorns began Splendor of God! ll'e have found a man! Ciood-bye ! Good luctc to you ! Blackwood's Magazine. 148 WAR VERSE NEW HEAVEN Paradise now has many a Knight, Many a lordkin, many lords, GHmmer of armor, dinted and bright, The young Knights have put on new swords. . Some have barely the down on the lip. Smiling yet from the new-won spurs. Their wounds are rubies, glowing and deep, Their scars amethyst — glorious scars. Michael's army hath many new men, Gravest Knights that may sit in stall, Kings and Captains, a shining train. But the little young Knights are dearest of all. Paradise now is the soldiers' land, Their own country its shining sod. Comrades all in a merry band ; And the young Knights' laughter pleaseth God. Katharine Tynan. The Nation. WAR VliRSE 149 FLANDERS 1915 The men go out to Flanders As to a promised land ; The men come back from Flanders With eyes that understand. They've drunk their fill of blood and wrath, Of sleeplessness and pain, Yet silently to Flanders They hasten back again. In the Low-lands of Flanders A patient watch they keep ; The living and the dead watch there Whilst we are sound asleep. Margaret Sackville. The Outlook. I50 WAR VERSE / / HE IS DEAD WHO WILL NOT FIGHT The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze ; And Life is Color and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these ; And he is dead who will not fight ; And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth ; Speed with the light-foot winds to run. And with the trees to newer birth ; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip. The woodland trees that stand together. They stand to him each one a friend ; They gently speak in the windy weather ; They guide to valley and ridges' end. The kestrel hovering by day. And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they. As keen of ear, as swift of sight. The blackbird sings to him, " Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing." WAR VERSE 151 In dreary doubtful waiting hours, r>efore the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers ; O patient eyes, courageous hearts ! And when the burning moment breaks. And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy-of-Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind. Through joy and blindness, he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands. And in the air Death moans and sings ; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands. And Night shall fold him in soft wings. Julian Grenfell. 152 WAR VERSE IN FLANDERS FIELDS In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place ; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe : To you from failing hands we throw The torch ; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. John McCrae. Punch. / WAR VERSE 153 FAREWELL TO ANZAC Oh ! lump your swag and leave, lads, the ships are in the bay. We've got our marching orders now, it's time to come awa}', And a long good-bye to Anzac beach, where blood has flowed in vain, For we're leaving it, leaving it, — game to fight again ! But some there are will never quit this bleak and l)loody shore, And some that marched and fought with us will tight and march no more ; Their blood has bought till judgment day the slopes they stormed so well, And we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where they fell ! (Leaving them, leaving them, — the bravest and the best! Leaving them, leaving them, — and maybe glad to rest ! We did our best with yesterday, to-morrow's still our own, — But we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping all alone!) Ay, they are gone beyond it all, the praising and the blame, And many a man may win renown, but none more fair a fame ; They showed the world Australia's lads knew well the way to die. And we're leaving them, leaving them, qxuct where they lie! 154 WAR VERSE (Leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where they died! Leaving them, leaving them, in their glory and their pride ! Round the sea and barren land, over them the sky, Oh ! we're leaving them, leaving them, quiet where thev lie!) C. Fox Smith. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 155 THE AMAZONS They fill the fields in mighty throng, Their spirits loosed by anxious sleep; Their care-worn souls are borne along Across far lands and stormy deep. There is no battle hardly won In which a hero plays a part, And falls to bullet, sword, or gun, But bleeds with his a mother's heart. The shrapnel shell, the bayonet thrust, Which sends the soldier boy to rest. And lays high hopes low in the dust, Deep wounds some watching woman's breast. No battle pride nor glorious stir. No wild red charge her will upkeeps. But tears and care, and pangs for her ; She prays and suffers, longs and weeps. She gets no honors or reward. Such gauds are issued to her boy; But in her love she can afford Him, comrade of her fights, the Joy, Richard A. Crouch. Gallipoli, November 2^, 1(^15. The Saturday Review. 156 WAR VERSE " WHEN THERE IS PEACE " " When there is Peace, this land no more Will be the land we knew of yore." Thus do the facile seers foretell The truth that none can buy or sell And e'en the wisest must ignore. When we iiave bled at every pore, Shall we still strive for gear and store? Will it be Heaven, will it be Hell, When there is Peace? This let us pray for — this implore — That, all base dreams thrust out at door, We may in nobler aims excel, And, like men waking from a spell, Grow stronger, worthier than before. When there is Peace ! Austin Dobson. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 157 THE MARTYRED NATION Out of the deafening boom and crash, out of the stifling reek Above the shouting of vahant men and the heart-drawn moans of the weak, Over the press of a conquering host and over the battle- cries, Hear ye the voice of Belgium floating toward the skies: " W'hat was the charge against me? What had I done amiss That the dastardly Hun should visit me with a penalty great as this? P.lasting me off creation ! Strii)ping my flesh and bone ! I had no lot in his quarrel, I did but defend mine own." Over the thundering cannon's roar, over the trumpet's blare, Over the smash of falling stone and the lurid, leaping glare, Over the pant of madden'd men and the scream of hurt- ling shell. Hear ye the voice of England, clear as a twilight bell : " Oh! lion-hearted nation, bravest of all the braves, For your splendid sake my stalwart sons are si)ecding across the waves ; So set vour teeth in your travail, Fleming and bold W'a'lloon ; I will place you back in your olden state, I will see you righted soon." Over the earth's wide surface in every human heart There's a throb for the stricken nati(Mi that so gallantly plaved her part, That suffered hell's keenest torture, yet fell with her flag unfurl'd. But hark to that rising murmur, the voice oi the outer world : 158 WAR VERSE " Death to the fell destroyer ! Down with the lustful Hun! England, mother of pity, see that the work is done. See that this martyred nation lives through the night of pain To rise, avenged, in the morning and come to her own again." W. H. Gadsdon. The Academy. WAR VERSE 159 ON PATROL— 1797 Our brothers of the landward side Are bound by Church and stall, By Councils Qicumenical, By Gothic arches tall, But we who know the cold gray sea, The salt and fl}ing spray. We praise the Lord in our fathers' way, In the simple faith of the sea we pray To the (iod that the winds and waves obey. Who sailed on Galilee. We pray as the Flag-Lieutenant prayed At St. Vincent's cabin door (Twenty sail of the line in view — Southwest by south they bore), " Oh, Lord of Hosts — I praise Thee now, And bow before Thy might — Who has given us fingers and hands to fight. And twenty ships of the line in sight — Thou knewest,oh,Lord — and placed them right- To leeward on the bow." Blackwood's Marjacine. i6o WAR VERSE THE OPEN BOAT " When this here War is done," says Dan, " and all the fightin's through There's some'U pal with Fritz again as they was used to do ; But not me," says Dan the sailor-man, " not me," says he; " Lord knows it's nippy in an open boat on winter nights at sea. " When the last battle's lost an' won, an' won or lost the game. There's some'll think no 'arm to drink with squareheads just the same; But not me," says Dan the sailor-man, " an' if you ask me why — Lord knows it's thirsty in an open boat when the water- breaker's dry. " When all the bloomin' mines is swep' an' ships are sunk no more, There's some'll set them down to eat with Germans as before ; But not me," says Dan the sailor-man, " not me, for one — Lord knows it's hungry in an open boat when the last biscuit's done. " When peace is signed and treaties made an' trade be- gins again There's some'll shake a German's 'and an' never see the stain ; But not me," says Dan the sailor-man, " not me, as God's on high — Lord knows it's bitter in an open boat to see your ship- mates die." C. Fox Smith. Punch. WAR VERSE i6i LONDON TROOPS While they endure the moaning fray, the fret, the pain, the sight of it. They build across the flaming field the ways of London Town, The little streets, the broad while roads, the bustle and the light of it, The winding whispering river, and the parks in green and brown ! \bove the reeking Somme they see St. Paul's with smokes that cover it, Gray wreaths of smoke, and flakes of sun, and brown birds on the wing. And by Pcronne the Thames is set with barges moving over it. And Chelsea bridges shoot away through mists where bullets sing! Brave London troops ! They give their flesh, their hands, their eyes, the all of them, They face the furious bayonet, the cannon's deep- mouthed boom. And oh ! it is for London's sake that they have stretched the wall of them Between the raging foemen and the town of gleam and gloom ! She is their love, their recompense, a lodestar for the hosts of them, They sing of her when they go down to win their bitter scars, And if they fall — her guardians still shall be the sentry- ghosts of them. Lined, cold and silent, round her walls beneath the marshaled stars ! The Loudon Chronicle. i62 WAR VERSE " V.A.D." We in the busy ward Stay not to dream ; for God has closed our eyes Lest, fronted by your giant sacrifice, O brothers maimed and pale. The hearts that seek to serve you, faint and fail ! We, handmaids of your pain, pass onward And speak not of your glory ; God has hung His silence on our lips, lest praises sung Scare your mirth-makings. And break your happy talk of trivial things. This be our sacrifice. You who have given all for one great Dream ! Steadfast enduring at the sober task Of days and nights that seem Gray-winged and glamourless — we will not ask For flashing visions of an earlier day ; And — if it serve you, brothers — dreamless be our way! Hither have brought us Those years wherein we chased the flying moon, Sought the blue roses, sailed the seas of June — Into this quiet shade Where Vision sleeps, and Youth to rest is laid. Through song and laughter, through the woods of Spring (Our youth had taught us) We came with dancing step and lute playing Most tender-sweet, Only for this — to kneel and wash your feet. 4: 4: * 3|e 9t: * WAR VERSE 163 O Sacrament iinguessed beside the lowly bed ! Not you, not you alone Wait on our care. Perchance there waiteth One (And }et we cannot see) \\ ho for our sake hath walked among the dead ; \A'hose Feet His daughters wash, as once in Bethany. Yet, if He will, His Hand be on our eyes, that we go sightless still. Mary Adair Macdonald. The Spectator. 1^4, WAR VERSE THE FAITHFUL COMRADE Where stark and shattered walls Mourn desolate to the sky He buildeth me a home, And well doth fortify. The sweeping scythes play near And shrill about my head: I look into His eyes That smile away my dread. And when with faltering feet I thread the perilous trench, His print the clay before And shame me if I blench. n nerve and spirit yield Before the grim demands, New power is in the touch Of His transfigured hands. The thousand barbarous tongues Of war may round me brawl ; His love within my heart Sings louder than them all. O edgeless armament ! O empty jeopardy ! While He, my Comrade, walks The stricken fields with me. P. J. Fisher. The Saturday Review. WAR VERSE 165 " HEY ! JOCK, ARE YE GLAD YE LISTED? " Drums: Hey ! Jock, are ye glad ye listed? O Jock, but ye're far f rae hame ! What d'ye think o' the tields o' Flanders? Jockey lad, are ye glad ye came? Wet rigs we wrought in the land o' Lennox, When Hielan hills were smeared wi' snaw ; Deer we chased through the seepin' heather, But the glaur o' Flanders dings them a' ! Blytli, blyth, and merry 7va.s' she, Blytli was she but and ben ; And weel she loo'd a Hazvick gill, And Icugh to sec a tappit hen. This is no' the Fair o' Balloch, Sunday claes and a penny reel ; It's no' for dancin' at a bridal Willie Lawrie's bagpipes S(|ueal. Men are to kill in the morn's nKjniin', Here ye're back to your daddies' trade ; Naething for't but to cock your bonnet, Buckle on graith and kiss the maid. The Comal's yonder deid in tartan, Sinclair's sheuched in Neuve h'glise, Slipped awa' wi' the sodgcr's fever, Kinder than ony auld man's disease. Scotland ! Scotland ! little we're due ye. Poor employ and a skim-milk board, But youth's a cream thai maun be paid for, We got it reamin', so draw the sword ! i66 WAR VERSE Come awa', Jock, and cock your bonnet ! Swing your kilt as best ye can; Auld Dumbarton's Drums are dirlin', Come awa', Jock, and kill your man ! Far, far's the cry to Leven Water Where your fore- folks went to war — They would swap wi' us to-morrow Even in the Flanders glaur ! Blyth, hlyth, and merry was she, Blyth was she but and ben; And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill. And leugh to see a tappit hen. Neil Munro. Blackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE 167 HE PRAYED He prayed, There where he lay, Blood-sodden and unkempt. As never in his young gay carelessness he'd dreamt That he could pray. He prayed; Not that the pain should cease. Nor yet for water in the parching heat. Nor for death's quick release. Nor even for the tardy feet Of stretcher-bearers bringing aid. He prayed; Cast helpless on the bloody sod : " Don't trouble now, O God, for me. But keep the boys. Go forward with them, God ! O give our Highlanders the victor\'." The kilts flashed on : " Well played," he sighed, " Well played." Just so he prayed. W. M. Letts. The JVestniiustcr Gazette. i68 WAR VERSE GERMAN PRISONERS When first I saw you in the curious street, Like some platoon of soldier ghosts in gray, My mad impulse was all to smite and slay, To spit upon you — tread you 'neath my feet. But when I saw how each sad soul did greet My gaze with no sign of defiant frown, How from tired eyes looked spirits broken down, How each face showed the pale flag of defeat. And doubt, despair, and disillusionment. And how were grievous wounds on many a head. And on your garb red-faced was other red ; And how you stooped as men whose strength was spent, I knew that we had suffered each as other, And could have grasped your hand and cried, " My brother ! " Sergeant Joseph Lee. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 169 THE THREE LADS Down the road rides a German lad, Into the distance gvciy ; Straight toward the north as a bullet flies, The dusky north, with its cold, sad skies; But the song that he sings is merry and glad. For he's off to the war and away. " Then hey! for our righteous king! " (he cries) " And the good old God in his good old skies ! And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes, — For Fm off to the war and away! " Down the road rides a Russian lad, Into the distance gray, Out toward the glare of the steppes he spurs. And he hears the wolves in the scjuthern tirs; But the song that he sings is blithe and glad. For he's off to the war and away. " Then hey ! for our noble tzar ! " (he cries) "And liberty that never dies! And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes, — For I'm off to the war and away! " Down the road rides an English lad, Into the distance gray. Through the murk and fog of the river's breath, Through the dank, dark night he rides to his death; But the song that he sings is gay and glad, I'or he's off to the war and away. " Then hey! for our honest king! " (he cries) "And lie\- ! for truth, and down witli lies! And ho! for love and a pair of blue eyes, — For I'm off to the war and away! " Elizabi;tii Cuandlkr Form an. The Nation. lyo WAR VERSE THE LONE WOMAN They're gathering now at yon crossroads. I hear the wail of a viohn. Ah, heart in my breast, be keeping still ! The women won't dance if I go in. They're playing the tune he used to love Before he went away to the West. They're playing the tune we danced to best. It goes to my heart like my child's caress. They're dancing a reel at yon crossroads. I hear the sound of a violin. Ah, heart in my breast, be keeping still ! The women won't dance if I go in. Robert A. Christie. The Saturday Review. WAR VERSE lyi TO " HIM THAT'S AVVA' " H I have ever dimmed with tears The glory of your high emprise Obscured with shadow ()f my fears The \'ision Splendid from your eyes — Forgive me, dear. li beneath outward show of calm You read my woman's anxious heart, Knew that soul-deep I dreaded harm. In secret failed to bear my part — Forget it, dear. The brief disloyalty has passed — Since Love betrayed, Love shall inspire — A flame has touched my soul at last, Lit fr(jm a consecrated fire — Your purpose, dear. Mks. J. O. Arnold. The Bookman. 172 WAR VERSE THE LITTLE SHIPS " The small steamer struck a mine yesterday and sank. The crew perished." — Daily Paper. Who to the deep in ships go down Great marvels do behold, But comes the day when some must drown In the gray sea and cold. For galleons lost great bells do toll, But now must we implore God's ear for sunken Little Ships Who are not heard of more. When ships of war put out to sea They go with guns and mail, That so the chance may equal be Should foeman them assail ; But Little Ships men's errands run And are not clad for strife; God's mercy then on Little Ships Who cannot fight for life. To warm and cure, to clothe and feed They stoutly put to sea, And since that men of them had need Made light of jeopardy ; Each in her hour her fate did meet Nor flinched nor made outcry ; God's. love be with these Little Ships Who could not choose but die. To friar and nun, and every one Who lives to save and tend, Sisters were these whose work is done And comelh thus to end; WAR VERSE 173 Full well they know what risk they ran P>ut still were strong- to jj;-ive ; God's grace for all the Little Ships Who died that men might live. Punch. 174 WAR VERSE L THE CHIVALRY OF THE SEA (Dedicated to the memory of Charles Fisher, late student of Christ Church, Oxford.) Over the warring waters, beneath the wandering skies, The heart of Britain roameth, the Chivah-y of the sea. Where Spring never bringeth a flower, nor bird singeth in a tree ; Far, afar, O beloved, beyond the sight of our eyes, Over the warring waters, beneath the stormy skies. Staunch and valiant-hearted, to whom our toil were play. Ye man with armor'd patience the bulwarks night and day. Or on your iron coursers plough shuddering through the Or 'neath the deluge drive the skirmishing sharks of war : Venturous boys who leapt on the pinnace and row'd from shore, A mother's tear in the eye, a swift farewell to say, And a great glory at heart that none can take away. Seldom is your home-coming; for aye your pennon flies In unrecorded exploits on the tumultuous wave ; Till, in the storm of battle, fast-thundering upon the foe, Ye add your kindred names to the heroes of long ago, And mid the blasting wrack, in the glad sudden death of the brave. Ye are gone to return no more. — Idly our tears arise; Too proud for praise as ye lie in your unvisited grave. The wide-warring water, under the starry skies. Robert Bridges. The Times. WAR VERSE 175 MAGPIES IN PICARDY The magpies in Picaidy Are more than I can tell. They flicker down the dusty roads And cast a magic spell On the men who march through Picardy Through Picardy to hell. (The blackbird flies with panic, The swallow goes like light, The finches move like ladies, The owl floats by at night ; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as artists might.) A magpie in Picardy Told me secret things — Of the music in white feathers, And the sunlight that sings And dances in deep shadows — He told me with his wings. (The hawk is cruel and rigid, He watches from a height ; The rook is slow and .sombre, The robin loves to fight ; Rut the great and flashing magpie He flies as lovers might.) He told me that in Picardy, An age ago or more. While all his fathers still were eggs, These dusty highways bf)re Brown, singing soldiers marching out Through Picardy to war. / 176 WAR VERSE He said that still through chaos Works on the ancient plan, And two things have altered not Since first the world began — The beauty of the wild green earth And the bravery of man, (For the sparrow flies unthinking And quarrels in his flight. The heron trails his legs behind, The lark goes out of sight ; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as poets might.) TiPUCA. The Westminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 177 WATCHMEN OF THE NIGHT Lords of the seas' great wilderness The lij:;:ht-gray warships cut the wind; The headland dwindles less and less ; The great waves, breaking, drench and blind The stern-faced watcher on the deck, While England fades into a speck. Afar on that horizon gray The sleepy homesteads one by one Shine with their cheerful lights as day Dies in the valley and is gone, While the great moon comes o'er the hill And floods the landscape, white and still. But outward 'mid the homeless waste The battle-fleet held on its way; On either side the torn seas raced, Over the bridge blew up the spray ; The ciuartermaster at the wheel Steered through the night his ship of steel. Once from a masthead blinked a light — The Admiral s|)oke unto the I""leet ; Swift answers flashed along the night. The charthouse glimmered through the sleet ; A bell rang from the engine-room, And ere it ceased^ — the great guns' boom ! Then thunder through the silence broke And rolled along the sullen deep; A hundred j^uns flashed Arc and spoke, Which Ijigland hoard not in her sleep Nor dreamed of, while her flghting sons Fed and flrcd the blazing guns. lyS WAR VERSE Dawn broke in England, sweet and clear ; Birds in the brake, the lark in heaven Made musical the morning air; But distant, shattered, scorched and riven, Gathered the ships — aye, dawn was well After the night's red and raging hell. But some came not with break of light, Nor looked upon the saffron dawn ; They keep the watch of endless Night, On the soft breast of ocean borne. O waking England, rise and pray For sons who guard thee night and day ! Cecil Roberts. The Poetry Review. WAR VERSE 179 " FOR A SCRAP OF PAPER " Why bursts the cloud in lliunder, and to devastate the world The levin bolt of battle from heaven, or hell, is hurled? Why march embattled millions, to death or victory sworn ? Why gape yon lanes of carnage by red artillery torn ? For a scrap of paper, for a scrap of paper, nothing more ! Why spurned the least of nations, but the bravest of the brave. The wages of dishonor and a traitor's peaceful grave? Why drew she sword? and, flinging the scabbard far away. Why rushed she into battle, the foremost in the fray ? For a scrap of paper, ior a scrap of paper, nothing more ! When the Queen of Empires summoned her children to her shore, And to set the ocean rolling she but spoke a word — no more — " Oh, come to me, my children, to your mother, come to me!" Why flocked the regiments trooping from the lands beyond the sea ? For a scrap of paper, for a scrap of paper, nothing more ! Whv hasted all the i)eoi)lcs to confront the bandit crew, When the\ heard the tocsin tolling and the blast that Justice blew ? i8o WAR VERSE W hy thrilled they at the summons, and answered one and all, By thousand thousands thronging, to the far-blown bugle-call ? For a scrap of paper, for a scrap of paper, nothing more ! When the guns have ceased to thunder and the battle- storm to rave, When the stars above are calling the last muster of the brave, As they lie there in their thousands, with their faces to the sky. We can hear their voices answer, " We were glad and proud to die For a scrap of paper, for a scrap of paper, nothing more ! " Paul Hyacinth Loyson. (Translated by Sir James Fraser.) The Fortnightly Review. WAR VERSE i8r THE NURSE Here in the long white ward I stand, Pausing a httle breathless space, Touching a restless fevered hand, Alurmuriilg comfort's commonplace — Long enough pause to feel the cold Fingers of fear about my heart ; Just for a moment, uncontrolled. All the pent tears of pity start. While here I strive, as best I mav. Strangers' long hours of pain t(j ease, Dumbl}- I question — Far oway Lies my beloved even as these'/ Punch. i82 WAR VERSE FROM BOSRAH Who is this, in regal state, who cometh from afar, His Tyrian purple garments dyed to a fierce blood-red, His sword unsheathed and rusted with dreadful stains of war, ' A crown of gold and jewels set on his royal head? Triumphantly he passes o'er Edom's tranquil plain, Death with his captives following across the ruined fields, Unharvested, ungarnered, blood-stained the golden grain. Where war demands the tribute that stubborn valor yields. Before him spreads in radiance the glory of the world, God's splendid gift that all men are bound to hold in trust ; Behind him grief and anguish 'neath terror's flag unfurled, Where flaming homes hide secrets of murder, rapine, lust. This is he, whose regal state proclaims him Lord of War, Death following in his footsteps, close as a new-made bride ; With glittering spear uplifted he cometh from afar, The crimson of his raiment in blood of thousands dyed. 9[C if* S|C alC 31^ *|S Who is this with wayworn feet and head in anguish bowed, Blood-drops upon His vesture. His forehead bathed in sweat ; Thorn-crowned, and gibed and jeered at amid a following crowd, Who mock the stern endurance where God and man have met? WAR VERSE 183 Here, strong to save, One conicth, speaking in righteous- ness. Who in His blood-stained garments alone the wine- press trod ; No one stood by to answer the cry of His distress When in His love and pity He faced the wrath of God. This is He, the Lord of Peace, with travel-weary feet, In crown of thorns, and stained with blood, who cometh from afar ; He who, upon the reckoning day w^hen God and man shall meet, Shall show Himself a conqueror, triumphant over war. Beatrice Allhusen. Chambers'.'! Journal. i84 WAR VERSE TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent hfe and Hmb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath. So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave : An Empire's team, a rougher football field. The end — perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul. Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain? Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt. How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless and not revolt? What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward? Yet you are merry as the birds in spring. Or feign the gayety. Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony. Lest they should suffer — this the only fear You let draw near. WAR VERSE i8s Gniyheard philosophy has soujilit in hooks And ai\<,niniciU this liulh, Ihat man is greater than his pain, hnt y(ni Have learnt it in your youth. You know tlie wisdom taught l)y Calvary At twenty-three. Death would have found you brave, but braver slill You face each lagging day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind Fate. Careless philoso[)her, the hrsl to laugh, The latest to complain, L'nmindlul that \ou teach, you taught me this In your long hght with jiain : Since t iod made man so good — here stands m\" creed — (lod's good indeed. W. M. LliTTS. The Spectator. i86 WAR VERSE " OUR ANNUAL " Up the well-remembered fairway, past the buoys and forts we drifted — Saw the houses, roads and churches, as they were a year ago. Far astern were wars and battles, all the dreary clouds were lifted, As we turned the Elbow Ledges — felt the engines ease to " Slow." Rusty side and dingy paintwork, stripped for war and cleared for battle — Saw the harbor-tugs around us — smelt the English fields again, — English fields and English hedges — sheep and horses, English cattle. Like a screen unrolled before us, through the mist of English rain. Slowly through the basin entrance — twenty thousand tons a-crawling With a thousand men aboard her, all a- weary of the War- Warped her round and laid alongside with the cobble- stones a-calling— " There's a special train awaiting, just for you to come ashore." Out again as fell the evening, down the harbor in the gloaming With the sailors on the fo'c's'le looking wistfully a-lee — Just another year of waiting — just another year of roaming For the Majesty of England — for the Freedom of the Sea. Klaxon. Blackwood's Mayadne. WAR VERSE 18: THE PASSING-RELL That was the Passing-bell. For whom? For one who died That Ens^land might fare well. One of that hero-host innumerable, A Nation's pride. But England never dies, Through such she lives and rears Her standard of lunprise, High faith, free hope, and all that purifies The stain of years. It tolls not ; it is glad, Glad with a solemn spell. Can England's heart be sad Ennobled by the noblest sons she had? It is no Passing-bell. Walti:k Siciikl. The Westminster Gazette. i88 WAR VERSE " POOR OLD SHIP ! " She wasn't much to brag about, she wasn't much to see, A rusty crusty hooker as a merchant ship could be ; They sunk her off the Longships Light as night was coming on, And we had to go and leave her there and, poor old ship, she's gone. All that was good of her, all that was bad of her, All that we gave to her, all that we had of her. Poor old ship, she's gone ! The times we spent aboard her, they was oftener bad than good, But bad or good, we'd live the lot all over if we could; She's stood her trick as well as us, she's had her whack of fun. She's shared it all with sailormen, and poor old ship, she's done. Hard times and soft times and all times we've been with her. Bad days and good days and all sorts we've seen with her, And, poor old ship, she's done ! She's stuck her crazy derricks upi by half a hundred quays. She's dipped her dingy duster in the spray of all the seas ; Her funnel's caked with Cape Horn ice and blistered in the sun, She's moseyed round above a bit, and, poor old ship, she's done. North seas and south, and they've all had a go at her, Hot winds and cold, and they've all had a blow at her, And, poor old ship, she's done ! She's trailed her smudge the whole world round in weather gray and blue, She's churned a dozen oceans with her blooming nine- knot screw ; WAR VERSE 189 She's sampled all the harbor nuid from Cardiff to Canton, And she'll never clear another port, for, poor old ship, she's ,<;one. I'orls up and dow n, and she's seen many a score of 'em ; Seas high and low, and she won't sail no more of 'em. For, poor old ship, she's gone ! And chaps that knowed her in their time, 'tween London and Rangoon, In many a sailor's drinking-place and water-front saloon, Will set their drinks down when they hear her blooming )arn is s[)un, And say, " I sailed aboard her once, and, poor old ship, she's done. Many's the hard word I once used to spend on her, Ah, them was great days, and now there's an end on her. Poor old ship, she's done ! " C. Fox Smith. Punch. J90 WAR VERSE RED POPPIES IN THE CORN I've seen them in the morning Hght, When white mists drifted by: I've seen them in the dusk o' night Glow 'gainst the starry sky. The slender waving blossoms red, Mid yellow fields forlorn : A glory on the scene they shed, Red Poppies in the Corn. I've seen them, too, those blossoms red, Show 'gainst the Trench lines' screen, A crimson stream that waved and spread Thro' all the brown and green : I've seen them dyed a deeper hue Than ever nature gave. Shell-torn from slopes on which they grew, To cover many a grave. Bright blossoms fair by nature set Along the dusty ways. You cheered us, in the battle's fret, Thro' long and weary days: You gave us hope : if fate be kind, We'll see that longed-for morn, When home again we march and find Red Poppies in the Corn. W. Campbell Galbraith, C. M. G. The Westminster Gazette. WAR VERSE 191 KITCHENER'S MARCH Not the niufiled drums for him Nor the wailing of the fife — Trumpets blaring to the charge Were the music of his life. Let the music of his death Be the feet of marching men, Let his heart a thousandfold Take the field again. Of his patience, of his calm, Of his quiet faithfulness, England, build your hero's cairn! He was worthy of no less. Stone by stone, in silence laid. Singly, surely, let it grow^ He whose living was to serve Would have had it so. There's a body drifting down For the might\- sea to keep. There's a sjjirit cannot die While one heart is left to leap. In the land he gave his all, Steel alike to [)raise and hate. He has saved the life he spent — Death has struck too late. Not the muffled drums for him Nor the wailing of the life — Trumpets blaring to the charge Were the music of his life. Let the music of his death Be the feet of marching men! Let his heart a thousandfold Take the field again ! The Bookman. A. I. B. 192 WAR VERSE THE ARMED LINER The dull gray paint of war Covering the shining brass and gleaming decks That once reechoed to the steps of youth. That was before The storms of destiny made ghastly wrecks Of Peace, the Right and Truth, Impromptu dances, colored lights and laughter, Lovers watching the phosphorescent waves, Now gaping guns, a whistling shell ; and after So many wandering graves. H. Smalley Sarson. The Poetry Review. WAR VERSE 193 PRO PATRIA ICnj^land, in this great fight to which you go liecause, where Honor calls you, go you must, lie glad, whatever comes, at least to know You have your quarrel just. Peace was your care ; before the nations' bar Her cause you pleaded and her ends you sought ; But not for her sake, being what you are, Could you be bribed and bought. Others may spurn the pledge of land to land. May with the brute sword stain a gallant past; But by the seal to which yoii set your hand, Thank God, you still stand fast! Forth, then, to front that peril of the deep \\ ith smiling lips and in your eyes the light, Steadfast and confident, of those who keep Their storied scutcheon bright. And we, whose burden is to watch and wait — High-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer, \\ e ask what offering we may consecrate. What humble service share? To steel our souls against the lust of ease; To find our welfare in the general good; To hold trjgethcr, merging all degrees In one wide brotherhood; — To teach that he who saves himself is lost; To bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; To spend ourselves, and never count the cost, For others' greater need; — 194 WAR VERSE To go our quiet ways, subdued and sane ; To hush all vulgar clamor of the street; With level calm to face alike the strain Of triumph or defeat ; — This be our part, for so we serve you best, So best confirm their prowess and their pride. Your warrior sons, to whom in this high test Our fortunes we confide. Owen Seaman. Punch. WAR VERSE 195 THE QUARTERMASTER I mustn't look up from the compass-card, nor look at the seas at all, I must watch the helm and compass-card — If I heard the trumpet-call Of Gabriel sounding Judgment Day to dry the Seas again,— I must hold her bow to windward now till I'm relieved again — To the pipe and wail of a tearing gale, Carrying Starboard Ten. I must stare and frown at the compass-card, that chases round the bowl. North and South and back again with every lurching roll. r>y the feel of the ship beneath I know the way she's going to swing, r.ut I mustn't look up to the booming wind however the halliards sing — In a breaking sea with the land a-lee, Carrying Starboard Ten. And I stoop to look at the compass-card as closes in the night, Iu)r it's hard to see bv the shaded glow of half a candle light, Ikit the spokes are bright, and I note beside in the corner of my eye A shimnTcr (>{ light on oilskin wet that shows the Owner nigh- Foggy and thick and a wind)- liick, Carrying .Starboard Ten. 196 WAR VERSE Heave and sway or dive and roll can never disturb me now ; Though seas may sweep in rivers of foam across the straining bow, I've got my eyes on the compass-card, and though she broke her keel And hit the bottom beneath us now, you'd find me at the wheel In Davy's realm, still at the helm. Carrying Starboard Ten. Klaxon. Blackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE 197 SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE They left the fury of the fi^ht, And they were very tired. The spates of Heaven were open quite, Unguarded and un wired. There was no sound of any gun, The land was still and green; Wide hills lay silent in the sun, Blue valleys slept between. They saw far oft" a little wood Stand up against the sky. Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood. . . . Some lazy cows went by . . . There were some rooks sailed overhead. And once a church-bell pealed. " God! hut it's England," some one said, "And there's a cricket-field! " TiPUCA. The Westminster Gazette. 198 WAR VERSE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM {From a Trench) Out here the dogs of war run loose, Their whipper-in is Death ; Across the spoilt and battered fields We hear their sobbing breath. The fields where grew the living corn Are heavy with our dead; Yet still the fields at home are green And I have heard it said : That— There are crocuses at Nottingham ! Wild crocuses at Nottingham ! Blue crocuses at Nottingham ! Though here the grass is red. There are little girls at Nottingham Who do not dread the Boche, Young girls at school at Nottingham (Lord! how I need a wash!). There are little boys at Nottingham Who never hear a gun ; There are silly fools at Nottingham Who think we're here for fun. When— There are crocuses at Nottingham ! Young crocus buds at Nottingham ! Thousands of buds at Nottingham Ungathered by the Hun. But here we trample down the grass Into a purple slime; There lives no tree to give the birds House i^oom in pairing-time. WAR X'ERSE 199 We live in holes, like cellar rats, But through the noise and smell I often see those crocuses Of which the people tell. Why ! There are crocuses at Nottingham! liright crocuses at Nottingham ! Real crocuses at Nottingham! Because we're here in Hell. Tlw Thiics. 200 WAR VERSE IN ENGLAND To-day the lonely winds are loose. And crying goes the rain, And here we walk the fields they knew, The Dead who died in pain. The fields that wait the slow hours long For sounds that shall not come — In other fields, in other earth The laughing hearts lie dumb. And— There are silent homes in England, now, And wakeful eyes in England, now, And tired hearts in England, now, Unhailed by fife or drum. There are crocuses at Nottingham And jonquils in the South, And any Dorset child may press A snowdrop to her mouth. The broken flesh that Flanders keeps. It, too, may have its flowers. But are they haunted, memory-sad As these new buds of ours ? For — There are ghosts abroad in England, now, And crying winds in England, now. And none forget in England, now. The wasted lives and powers. Here, we who cannot even die Live out our emptied days — The maimed, the blind, the witless, throng Our unassaulted ways. • WAR \ERSE 20I Around our lives, ihe broken lives Like worthless toys downthrown, And they were dropped in Hell, whilst here The early liowers had blown, Rut— Our hearts are pierced in llnijland, now, And none forget in Kngland, now, That redder seed than England's now In Flanders earth is sown ! May O'Rourke. The Times. 202 WAR VERSE ' WHOSE DEBTORS WE ARE " They held, against the storms of fate, In war's tremendous game, A little land inviolate Within a world aflame. They looked on scarred and ruined lands, On shell-wrecked fields forlorn, And gave to us, with open hands, Full fields of yellow corn ; The silence wrought in wood and stone, Whose aisles our fathers trod ; The pines that stand apart, alone, Like sentinels of God ; The stars that guard the quiet night, Pin-pricked against the blue ; The wind-swept dawn whose tranquil light Is mirrored in the dew. With generous hands they paid the price Unconscious of the cost, But we must gauge the sacrifice By all that they have lost. The joy of young adventurous ways, Of keen and undimmed sight, The eager tramp through sunny days, The dreamless sleep of night, The happy hours that come and go In youth's untiring quest, They gave, because they willed it so, With some light-hearted jest. WAR \'ERSE 203 No lavish love of future years. No passionate regret, No gift of sacrifice or tears Can ever pay the debt. runch. 204 WAR VERSE THE GREAT GUNS OF ENGLAND The great guns of England, they listen mile on mile To the boasts of a broken War- Lord; they lift theii throats and smile; But the old woods are fallen For a while. The old woods are fallen ; yet will they come again, They will come back some springtime with the warm winds and the rain, For Nature guardeth her children Never in vain. They M'ill come back some season ; it may be a hundred years ; It is all one to Nature with the centuries that are hers ; She shall bring back her children And dry all their tears. But the tears of a would-be War-Lord shall never cease to flow. He shall weep for the poisoned armies whenever the gas- winds blow, He shall always weep for his widows, And all Hell shall know. The tears of a pitiless Kaiser shallow they'll flow and wide. Wide as the desolation made by his silly pride When he slaughtered a little people To stab France in her side. Over the ragged cinders they shall flow on and on With the listless falling of streams that find not Oblivion, For ages and ages of years Till the last star is gone. Lord Dunsany. The Saturday Reviezv. WAR VERSE 205 r.UT A SHORT TIME TO LIVE Our little hour — how swift it flies When poppies llare and lilies smile ; How soon the fleeting^ minute dies, Leaving us but a little while To dream our dream, to sing our song, To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower, The Gods — They do not give us long — One little hour. Our little hour — how short it is When Love with dew-eyed loveliness Raises her lips for ours to kiss And dies within our first caress. Youth flickers out like windblown flame, Sweets of to-day to-morrow s(jur, For Time and Death, relentless, claim One little hour. Our little hour — how short a time To wage our wars, to fan our fates, To take our fill of armored crime, To troop our banner, storm the gates. Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red, Blind in our puny reign of power. Do we forget how soon is sped One little hour. Our little hour — how soon it dies; How short a time to tell our beads, To chant our feeble Litanies, To think sweet thoughts, to do gf)od deeds. The altar lights grow pale and dim, The bells hang silent in the tower — So passes with the dying hymn Our little hour. Lkslil Cotn.soN. 2o6 WAR VERSE MARE LIBERUM You dare to say with per juiced lips, " We fight to make the ocean free "? You, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors ! Have you never thought, — What you call freedom, men call piracy ! Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave Where you have murdered, cry you down ; And seamen whom you would not save. Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown Of shame for your imperious head, — A dark memorial of the dead, — Women and children whom you left to drown. Nay, not till thieves are set to guard The gold, and corsairs called to keep O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, And wolves to herd the helpless sheep, Shall men and women look to thee, — Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea, — To safeguard law and freedom on the deep ! In nobler breeds we put our trust : The nations in whose sacred lore The " Ought " stands out above the " Must," And Honor rules in peace and war. With these we hold in soul and heart, With these we choose our lot and part, Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore. Henry Van Dyke. U. S. Minister at The Hague, igi^-i6. WAR VERSE 20: THE PATROL Fire men over the parapet, ti-itli a one-star loot in eharge, Stumbling along through the litter and muck and curs- ing blind and large, Hooking their gear in the clutching zcire as they zvriggle through the gap, for an hour's patrol in No Man's Land, and take zvhat chance may hap. Over the sodden parapet and through the rusty wire, Out of touch with all good things, fellowship, light, and fire; Every clattering bully-tin a Jwdas as we pass, At every star-shell, face to earth upon the sodden grass. From Misery Farm to Seven Trees it's safe enough to go. r.ut it's belly-crawl down Dead Man's Ditch, half choked with grimy snow. Then back beside the grass-grown road — Watch out ! They've got it set ! To where B Company's listening post lies shivering in the wet. All the dark's a mystery, and every breath's a threat — I've forgotten many a thing, but this I sha'n'l forget, A crawl by night in No Man's Land, with never a sight or sound, Except the flares and the rifle-flash and the blind death whimpering round. And T have failed at many a task, but this one thing I've learned : It's little things make Paradise — like three hours' doss well earned, 2o8 WAR VERSE A fire of coke in a battered pail, and a gulp of ration rum, Or a gobbled meal of bully and mud, with the guns for a moment dumb. And horror's not from the terrible things — men torn to rags by a shell. And the whole trench swimming in blood and slush, like a butcher's shop in hell ; It's silence and night and the smell of the dead that shake a man to the soul, From Misery Farm to Dead Man's Ditch on a " Nil report " patrol. Five men back to the trench again, with a one-star loot in charge, Stumbling over tJie rusty tins and cursing blind and large. Enter the trench-log up to date by a guttering candle's % flare! " No report " (save that hell is dark, and we have just been there). J. H. Knight-Adkin, Capt. Glosters. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 209 SUBALTERNS {A Song of Oxford) They had so much to lose; their radiant laughter Shook my old walls — how short a time ago. I hold the echoes of their song hereafter Among the precious things I used to know. Their cup of life was full to overflowing, All earth had laid its tribute at their feet. What harvest might we hope from such a sowing? What noonday from a dawning so complete ? And I — I watched them working, dreaming, playing, Saw their young bodies fit the mind's desire, Felt them reach outward, upward, still obeying The passionate dictates of their hidden tire. Yet here and there some graybeard breathed derision, " Too much of luxury, too soft an age ! Your careless Galahads will see no vision, Your knights will make no mark on honor's page." No mark? — Go ask the broken fields in Flanders, Ask the great dead who watched in ancient Iroy, .\sk the ()\d moon as round the world she wanders What of the men who were my hope and joy ! They are but fragments of Imperial sjjlcndor, Ilandfuls of might amid a mighty host, Yet I, who saw them go with proud surrender. May surely claim to love them first and most. 210 WAR VERSE Thf^y who h?d all, gave all. Their half-writ story Lies in the empty halls they knew so well, But they, the knights of God, shall see His glory, And find the Grail ev'n in the fire of hell. Mildred Huxley. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 2U PARIS AGAIN Big blue overcoat and breeches red as red, And a queer quaint kepi at an angle on his head ; And he sang as he was marching, and in the Tuilleries You could meet him en permission with Margot on his knee. At the little cafe tables by the dusty palms in tubs, In the Garden of the Luxembourg, among the scented shrubs, On the old IjOuI. Mich, of student days, you saw his red and blue ; Did you come to love the fantassin, le p'tit piou-piou? He has gone, gone, vanished, like a dream of yester- night ; He is out among the hedges where the shrapnel smoke is white ; And some of him are singing still and some of him are dead. And blood and mud and sweat and smoke have stained his blue and red. He is out among the hedges and the ditches in the rain, I'.ut, when the soixante-qiiinces are hushed, just hark ! — the old refrain, " .S'l tit 7-eux fairc man honheur, Martjucrite, O Mar- f/uerlte," Ringing clear above the rifles and the trampling of the feet. Ah, mav le hnn Dieii send him back again in blue and red. With his (|ucer, (|uaint kepi at an angle on bi^ head. 212 WAR VERSE So the Seine shall laugh again beneath the sunlight's quick caress ; So the Meudon woods shall echo once again to " La Jeunesse." And all along the Luxembourg and in the Tuilleries, We shall meet him en permission with Margot on his knee. Punch. WAR VERSE 213 THE BIRDS FLIT UNAFRAID The birds flit unafraid Through your great cannonade ; And, O Cannoniers, though ill The forests take your skill And as by winter nipp'd Scatter leaves buUet-stript Down the shell-ravaged road — Still, in its dark abode, In the branches of God, The Soul sings on alone ; You may blow the dead from their crypt, Not the dream from its throne! Herbert Trench. The IVestminster Gazette. 214 WAR VERSE PROCESSIONAL Shall Christ not have His chosen men Nor lead His crested knights so tall, Superb upon their horses when The world's last cities fall ? Ah, no ! These few, the maimed, the dumb, The saints of every lazar's den, The earth's offscourings — they come From desert and from fen To break the terror of the night. Black drearns and dreadful mysteries, And proud lost empires in their might. And chains and tyrannies. . . . See how the plated gates unfold, How swing the creaking doors of brass ! Victorious in defeat— behold, Christ and His cohorts pass ! Theodore Maynard. WAR VERSE 215 GOD'S HILLS In our hill-country of the North, The rainy skies are soft and gray, And rank on rank the clouds go forth, And rain in orderly array Treads the mysterious flanks of hills That stood before our race began, And still shall stand w hen Sorrow spills Her last tear on the dust of man. There shall the mists in beauty break And clinging tendrils hnely drawn, A rose and silver glory make About the silent feet of dawn ; Till enable clears his iron sides And Bowfell's wrinkled front appears, And Scawfell's clustered might derides The menace of the marching years. The tall men of that noble land Who share such high companionship, Are scorners of the feeble hand, Contemners of the faltering lip. When all the ancient truths de])art, In every strait that men confess. Stands in the stubborn Cumbrian heart The spirit of that steadfastness. In quiet valleys of the hills The humble gray stone crosses lie, And all day long the curlew shrills And all day long the wind goes by. But on some stifling alien ])lain The flesh of Cumbrian men is thrust In shallow pits, rind cries in vain 'Co mingle with its kindred dust. 2i6 WAR VERSE Yet those make death a little thing Who know the settled works of God, Winds that heard Latin watchwords ring From ramparts where the Roman trod. Stars that beheld the last King's crown Flash in the steel-gray mountain tarn, And ghylls that cut the live rock down Before Kings ruled in Ispahan. And when the sun at even dips And Sabbath bells are sad and sweet. When some wan Cumbrian mother's lips Pray for the son they shall not greet, As falls that sudden dew of grace Which makes for her the riddle plain. The South wind blows to our own place, And we shall see the hills again. Edward Melbourne. The New Witness. WAR VERSE 217 THE INN O' THE SWORD (^■i Sony of Youth and War) Roving along the King's highway I met \vi' a Romany black. " Good day," says I ; says he, " Good day, And what may you have in your pack? " " Why, a shirt," says I, " and a song or two To make the road go faster." He kuighed : " Ye'll find or the day be through There's more nor that, young master. Oh, roving's good and youth is sweet And love is its own reward; But there's that shall stay your careless feet When ye come to the Sign o' the Sword." " Riddle me, riddlemaree," tjuoth I, " Is a game that's ill to win, And the day is o'er fair such tasks to try " — Said he, " Ye shall know at the inn." With that he suited his path to mine And we traveled merrily, Till I was ware of the promised sign And the door of an hostelry. And the Romany sang, " To the very life Ye shall pay for bed and board; Will ye turn aside to the House of Strife? Will ye lodge at the Inn o' the Sword? ' Then T looked at the inn 'twixt joy and fear, And the Romany looked at me. Said I, " We ha' come to a parting here And I know not who you he." But he only laughed as I smote on the door: " Go, take ye the fighting chance; Mnyhaj) T f)nce was a troubadour In the knightly days of France. 2i8 WAR VERSE Oh, the feast is set for those who dare And the reddest o' wine outpoured ; And some sleep sound after peril and care At the Hostelry of the Sword." Punch. WAR \ERSE 210 TO KING GEORGE From East to West, from North to South, thy Banner is unfurled ; It streams above the Seven Seas, it waves throughout the world ! The sun may travel far by day and journey through the night ; Speed as he will, thine Empire's bounds be yet beyond his sight. Discord is silent at thy word, and safe beneath thy rule The lamb and lion slake their thirst beside the self-same pool. Each home is nurs'd in Virtue's lap, and Folk's voice is still; Even in dreams there cometh not a single thought of ill ! Fire, water, wind obey thy will and th\- commandments own ; Triumjih and Joy dwell calm beneath the shadows of thy Throne! Imperial Master, noble George, our sovereign Lord and King, Thee, our defense in time of need, thy loving people sing. While tower the Mountains of the North, while sunlight gilds the plain, While gleams the silver moon by nighl, or heaves the rolling main. World-wide, unmoved, imi)regnable, may thy dominion stand, And for the buttress of thv Right be God's protecting hand! SiKDAK Daljit Singh, C S. I. 220 WAR VERSE OXFORD REVISITED IN WAR TIME Beneath fair Magdalen's storied towers I wander in a dream, And hear the mellow chimes float out O'er Cherwell's ice-bound stream. Throstle and blackbird stiff with cold Hop on the frozen grass ; Among the aged, upright oaks The dun dee» slowly pass. The chapel organ rolls and swells, And voices still praise God ; But ah ! the thought of youthful friends Who lie beneath the sod. Now wounded men with gallant eyes Go hobbling down the street, And nurses from the hospitals Speed by with tireless feet. The town is full of uniforms; And through the stormy sky. Frightening the rooks from the tallest trees, The aeroplanes roar by. The older faces still are here More grave and true and kind. Ennobled by the steadfast toil Of patient heart and mind. And old-time friends are dearer grown To fill a double place : Unshaken faith makes glorious Each forward-looking face. WAR VERSE 221 Old Oxford's walls are gray and worn: She knows the truth of tears, But to-day she stands in her ancient pride Crowned with eternal \ears. Gone are her sons: yet her heart is glad In the glory of their youth, For she brought them forth to live or die By freedom, justice, truth. Cold moonlight falls on silent towers ; The young ghosts walk with the old ; But Oxford dreams of the dawn of May, And her heart is free and bold. Tkrtius Van Dyke. 222 WAR VERSE THE LOOM Riding back from Caudebec through autumn night and rain, Through colonnades of Norway pine that fringe the Norman Seine, I heard a wild boar grouting, I heard a lone stag bray, And — I heard the muffled mutter of the great guns far awav. The clitter-clock of the horse's hoofs along the forest trail. The sawing of a withered branch that felt the rising gale, The creak and groan of leather — and over, under all That never-ending murmur with its half -heard rise and fall. Then, as a wan and watery moon gleamed thro' the driving rain. The forest turned upon itself like a woman in her pain. The shadows gathered shape and form, and, monstrous, in the gloom Of groves that knew the Elder Gods, I saw and heard — The Loom. Its whirring wheel from earth to sky bore warp and woof of weird, Its distaff wove the dooms of men, its phantom spindle veered. While the wandering wind that walks the world came wailing thro' the trees And the hair upon my head stood up, the horse flinched 'neath my knees, WAR VERSE 223 For I knew the Gods behind the Gods, the Gods of an older day, The Noins who were ere Odin was, whom Ragnarok cannot slay : And I was the child of an ordered world and followed the Xazarene, But their spindle-song sang " Christ is dead with all that He seemed to mean." And the old fierce Gods have come again, the Gods of pride and might, Whose lips are slow and feeble to bless, but whose hands are heavy to smite, \\Mio, desperate, rule the world for a while in dread l)y fear of the sword, With the hopeless fates behind their power and doom at their council board. The White Christ wails in Nibelheim and never shall rise again. His Saints are dumb and in their stead ride the " Choosers of the Slain " ! And my heart grew cold within my breast as the shape- less shuttle whirred. For ever the whisper of distant guns was their songs' over-word. But, as I shook in the saddle there, I signed myself with the sign, And a new heart grew within my breast and my blood warmed as with wine, I tightened my knees on the saddle-flaps and straight- ened my back and called : " For all the weight and woe of your weird I am not yet appalled, " For I have been in the Ditches of Death and I have seen men die, Your warp and w(K)f may darken the earth but they cannot hide the sky, 224 WAR VERSE Ye may grind men's bones and rive their flesh and pound their works into dust, But Christ on the Cross of Calvary is the sword our souls shall trust ! " The black boughs swung against the sky, a sudden rain squall blurred The half -seen vistas of the pines — At speaking of the Word The Sight had passed — and as I rode I saw by Mailleraie A road-side Calvary stand clear against the dawning day. J. H, Knight-Adkin, Capt. Glosters. The Spectator. WAR \'ERSE 225 THEIR NURSES We rocked their blue-lined cradles, we watched their smiles and tears; \\"\[h toil-worn hands we led them along the helpless years ; They brought to us their sorrows, to us their broken toys; We were their first fond mothers, they — just our baby boys ! The years went by. From Sandhurst, clean-limbed broad- shouldered men. To us in lodge and cottage would come our boys again. In from a long day's hunting or wet walk with the guns, To take their tea with " Nana." These were our grown- up sons. Then came the calling bugles that drew them as with cords ; Our boys came home as soldiers in buckled belts and swords ; 'Twas "Wish me luck, then, Nana; I'm off to join the crowd!" Wiiat luck did we not wish them! And oh, but we were proud. We shared their every hardship; we knew, we knew how well The boys we nursed would bear them in face of shot and shell ; l'.\- Mcmorv's fireguard shadow flung o'er a white cot's fold' We, with the hearts of mothers, knew when our boys slept cold. 226 WAR VERSE We shared their every triumph, admired as from afar Each new toy as they showed it — each 'medal, clasp and bar; Our babes were grown to Captains; we saw them crowd the lists With wooden swords of boyhood held firm in dimpled fists. At last, long feared and waited, the casual word came through : We knew them " killed in action " ; no more their mothers knew ; The world may speak of motherhood; we felt its pangs for these Who learned to play at soldiers long since beside our knees. Their medals to their mothers — the honor and the pride ; We, too, with arms as empty, remembering, have cried; They were our dimpled babies whose laugh and lisp we keep; We watched their infant cradles — God guard their sol- dier sleep! W. H. O. Punch. WAR VERSE 227 THE ROAD The Road is thronged with women : soldiers pass And halt, but never see them: yet they're here, A patient crowd along the sodden grass, Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. The Road goes crawling up a long hillside All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs Of battle thrown in heaps: liere, where they died, Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, Stare up at cavern'd darkness winking white. You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on. Half-dazed for want of sleep : no dream could mock Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. You did not feel her arms about your knees. Her blind caress, her lips upon your head : Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, The Road would serve you well enough for bed. Siegfried Sassoon, B. E. F, The Satitrdax Review. 228 WAR VERSE A HYMN OF LOVE (An answer to the "Hymn of Hate") Britannia, Mother, hear our joyous hymn, As strong with Freedom's strength and fearless pride. Serene and steadfast, clean in life and limb. By Love sustained and through Love justified, We fight our fight for Right. From freedom fashioned and by Freedom bound. Servants to Right but tyrants to the Wrong, Grant that within our hearts be ever found That Love-born Wisdom which alone makes strong And justifieth Might. Put from us frothy arrogance and hate, That evil offspring of a meagre Love ; If smite we must, then let our blows be great With joyous laughter born in Heaven above, Not with a Hell-spawned spite. Britannia, Mother, at thy feet we kneel. As Lovers give, so reck we not the price, Bid us to live more near the Great Ideal, So when we die, a fitting sacrifice Be offered unto Right. From out the splendid annals of the past, Triumphant swells our fathers' battle song, The challenge that their deathless valor cast Still lies defiant at the feet of Wrong And shames our tardy Might. Britannia, Mother, as they made thee great, By lives whose greatness ever lives in thee, So bid that we enrich thy precious freight By lives whose greatness shall eternally Bear witness to the Right. WAR VERSE 229 In triumph merciful, in ^rim defeat Content to suffer and if needs be die, So that Humanity may one day greet The Freedom that our blood shall sanctify, In that we fou.^-ht for Right. Britannia, Motherland, be great in us, So shall thy children all be great in thee, Each guiding each to Heaven ; only thus Shall man attain God's Love-born unity. And Right be one with Alight. See the whole Empire, our great Heritage, Far-flung by Freedom, but by Love made one, True .Archetype of the Democratic Age \\'hich now in blood and travail hath begun To bear its precious fruit. Britannia, Mother, bid our Love go forth To every Nation and to every land, ' Till, free from hate and bondage. Mother Earth Fulfils the Harmony which God hath planned. But man must execute. Ho ! The Joy of it ! The Victor's shout Already throbs triumphant in our throats; Who greatly loveth knows nor fear nor doubt. But borne on Love's eternal pinions floats Free as the Eagle's flight. Britannia, Mother, hear our joyous hymn, As strong with Freedom's strength and fearless pride, Serene and steadfast, clean in life and limb, By Love sustained and through Love justified We fight our fight for Right. • Richard Hope, Lieut., R. N. The Poetry Review. 230 WAR VERSE TO AMERICA, ON HER FIRST SONS FALLEN IN THE GREAT WAR Now you are one with us, you know our tears, Those tears of pride and pain so fast to flow ; You too have sipped the first strange draught of woe ; You too have tasted of our hopes and fears; Sister across the ocean, stretch your hand. Must we not love you more, who learn to understand? There are new graves in France, new quiet graves; The first-fruit of a Nation great and free. Full of rich fire of life and chivalry, Lie quietly, though tide of battle laves Above them: sister, sister, see our tears. We mourn with you, who know so well the bitter years. Now do you watch with us ; your pain of loss Lit by a wondrous glow of love and power That flowers, star-like at the darkest hour Lighting the eternal message of the Cross; They gain their life who lose it, earth shall rise Anew and cleansed, because of life's great sacrifice. And that great band of souls your dead have met. Who saved the world in centuries past and gone, Shall find new comrades in their valiant throng; Oh, Nation's heart that cannot e'er forget, Is not death but the door to life begun To those who hear far Heaven cry " Well done ! " E. M.- Walker. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 231 ADMIRAL DUGOUT He had done with fleets and squadrons, with the restless roaming seas, He had found the quiet haven he desired, And he lay there to his moorings with the dignity and ease Most becoming to Rear- Admirals (retired) ; He was bred on " Spit and Polish " — he was reared to " Stick and String " — All the things the ultra-moderns never name ; But a storm blew up to seaward, and it meant the Real Thing, And he had to slip his cable when it came. So he hied him up to London for to hang about Whitehall, And he sat upon the steps there soon and late, He importuned night and morning, he bombarded great and small, From messengers to Ministers of State ; He was like a guilty conscience, he was like a ghost unlaid, He was like a debt of which you can't get rid, Till the Powers That Be, despairing, in a fit of temper said, " For the Lord's sake give him something " — and thev did. They commissioned him a trawler with a high and raking bow, Black and workmanlike as any pirate craft, With a crew of steady seamen very handy in a row, And a brace of little barkers fore and aft ; And he blessed the Lord his Maker when he faced the North Sea sprays And exceedingly e.xlolled his lucky star That had given his youth renewal in the evening of his days (With the rank of C';ii)tain Dugout, K. X. R.). 232 WAR VERSE He is jolly as a sandboy, he is happier than a king. And his trawler is the darling of his heart (With her cuddy like a cupboard where a kitten couldn't swing, And a smell of fish that simply won't depart) ; He has found upon occasion sundry targets for his guns ; He could tell you tales of mine and submarine ; Oh, the holes he's in and out of and the glorious risks he runs Turn his son — who's in a Super-Dreadnought — green. He is fit as any fiddle ; he is hearty, hale and tanned ; He is proof against the coldest gales that blow ; He has never felt so lively since he got his first command (Which is rather more than forty years ago) ; And of all the joyful picnics of his wild and wandering youth — Little dust-ups from Taku to Zanzibar — There was none to match the picnic, he declares in sober sooth. That he has as Captain Dugout, R. N. R. C. Fox Smith. Punch. WAR VERSE 233 THE WIND IN THE TREES Wind! Wind! what do you bring \\ ilh the whirling flake and the flying cloud? A victor's bays and a song to sing? — Nay, but a hero's shroud ! Wild wind ! what do you bear — A song of the men who fought and fell, A tale of the strong to do and dare ? — Aye, and a tolling bell ! Wind ! wind ! what do you see — The flying flags and the soldiers brave, The marching men, the bold and free? — Nay, but a new-dug grave ! Wild wind ! what do you moan To the frosty night and the cloud-wracked sky? — A soldier's cross, a father's groan. And a mother's hopeless cry ! S. Donald Cox, London Rifle Brigade. The Poetry Review. 234 WAR VERSE WAR The serpent-horror writhing in her hair, And crowning cruel brows bent o'er the ground That she would crimson now from many a wound. Medusa-like, I seem to see her there — War! with her petrifying eyes astare — And can no longer listen to the sound Of song-birds in the harvest fields around; Such prophecies do her mute lips declare. Evils? Can any greater be than they That troop licentious in her brutal train? Unvindicated honor? She brings shame — Shame more appalling than men dare to name, Betraying them that die and them that slay, And making of the earth a hell of pain ! Florence Earle Coates. The Athenaeum. WAR VERSE 235 ST. OUEN IN PICARDY Gleams of English orchards dance Through the sunny fields of France; Flowers that blow at Nedonchel Thrive in Gloucestershire as well; Children sing to fleet the time What they deem an English rhyme — " Kiss me quick ; aprcs la guerre Promenade en Angleterre." English hearts are gladdened when Out of children's lips again Comes the lilt of English song \\ hen their absence has been long; Children running through the street Beating time with merry feet — " Kiss me cjuick ; aprcs la guerre Promenade en Angleterre." But to hear them as they sing Brings a sudden questioning: Here the children play and roam — How's my little one at home? In St. Oucn the simple strain 1 akes the heart with hungr)' pain — " Kiss me c|uick; apres'la guerre Promenade en Angleterre." Punch. 236 WAR VERSE SONG OF THE SOLDIERS What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, To hazards whence no tears can win us ; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away ? Is it a purbHnd prank, O think you. Friend with the musing eye Who watch us stepping by, With doubt and dolorous sigh ! Can much pondering so hoodwink you ! Is it a purbUnd prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye ? Nay. We see well what we are doing, Though some may not see — Dalliers as they be ! — England's need are we ; Her distress would set us rueing: Nay. We see well what we are doing, Though some may not see ! In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just. And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, March we to the field ungrieving. In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just. WAR VERSE 237 Hence the faiih and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, To hazards whence no tears can win us; Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away. Thomas Hardy. TJu- Times. WAR VERSE THE WIFE OF FLANDERS Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day — A Httle hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . . This is not Paris. You have lost your way. You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan. Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Pay you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay? What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same. How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you everything you owe? Unhappy, can I give you back your honor? Though I forgave, would any man forget? While all our great green earth has trampled on her, The treason and terror of the night we met. Not any more in vengeance or in pardon, One old wife bargains for a bean that's hers. You have no word to break : no heart to harden. Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs. G. K. Chesterton. The Nezv Witness. WAR VERSE 239 / THE NAVAL RESERVE From the undiscovered deep W'here the blessed lie at ease — Since the ancient navies keep Empire of the heavenly seas — Back they come, the mighty dead, Ouick to serve where the\- have led. Rushing on the homeward gale, Swift they come, to seek their place W'here the gray flotillas sail, Where the children of their race Now against the foe maintain All they gave their lives to gain. Rank on rank, the admirals Rally to their old commands: Where the crash of battle falls. There the one-armed hero stands. Loud upon his jjliantom mast Speak the signals of the past. Where upon the friendly wave Stand our squadrons as of old, Where the lonely deed and brave Shall the ancient torch ui)hold — Strive for England, side by side. Those who live and those who died. Evelyn Underiiill. The New Weekly. 240 WAR VERSE THE KING'S HIGHWAY When moonlight flecks the cruiser's decks And engines rumble slow, When Drake's own star is bright above And Time has gone below, They may hear who list the far-off sound Of a long-dead never-dead mirth, In the mid watch still they may hear who will The song of the Larboard Berth. In a dandy frigate or a well-found brig, In a sloop or a seventy-fotir, In a great First-rate zvith an Admiral's flag, And a hundred guns or more. In a fair light air, in a dead foul wind, At midnight or midday, Till the good ship sink her mids shall drink To the King and the King's Highway! The mids they hear — no fear, no fear ! They know their own ship's ghost : Their young blood beats to the same old song And roars to the same old toast. So long as the sea-wind blows unbound And the sea-wave breaks in spray, For the Island's sons the word still runs " The King, and the King's Highway ! " Henry Newbolt. WAR VERSE 241 LOUVAIN {To Dom BriDio Dcstrce, O.S.B.) It was the very heart of Peace that thrilled In the deej) minsler bell's far-throbbing sound, \\ hen over old roofs evening seemed to build Security that this world never found. Your cloister looked from Cesar's rampart high O'er the fair city. Clustered orchard trees Married their dreaming murmur with the sky. It was the haunt of lore and living peace. And there we talked of youth's delightful years In Italy, in England. Now, O friend, I know not if I speak to living ears Or if upon you too has come the end. Peace is in Louvain ; dead peace of spilt blood Upon the mounded ashes where she stood. Yet from that blood, those ashes, there arose Not hoped-for terror cowering as it ran, PjUt divine anger flaming upon those Defamers of the ver}- name (jf man, Abortions of their blind hyena-creed. Who — for " protection " of their battle-host Against the unarmed of those they had made to bleed, Whose hearts they had tortured to the uttermost Without a cause, past pardon — fired and tore 1'he towers of fame and beauty, while they shot And butchered the defenceless at each door. Put History shall hang them high, to rot Unburied, in the face of wrath unborn. Mankind's abomination and last scorn. LAURlilNCE BiNYON. The Spectator. 242 WAR VERSE SERBIA TO THE HOHENZOLLERNS {August, 1915) I am she whose ramparts, ringed with Christian swords, Bore the first huge batterings of the Paynim hordes. Ground beneath their horse-hoofs, broken by their blows, I was made a pavement for the feet of foes : Mighty lords from Asia, proud above their peers, Rode over my body for three hundred years: Buried under armies, hopeless did I lie. Hanging on to honor, sick for liberty ; Cried to Christ for justice, grasped a broken rood. Saw each hope that flickered, stifled, drowned in blood; Saw through torturing ages, dreadfully arrayed, Antichrist, all armored, riding in Belgrade ! So the iron bit my soul ; and that soul became Iron, fit for warriors' use, tempered in the flame By my sweat and anguish, out of my despair. Step by step I won it back, the name that now I bear. Upstarts ! Can you teach me any wrong or woe, T3a-anny or torture that I do not know? Bid your heathen armies glut all hell with crimes! Loose your hounds of carnage ! 'Twill be like old times. Though your hand be heavy, though your head be high, Othman's head was higher in the days gone by ! I, that died and am alive, call on God that He, Who shall judge the quick and dead, judge 'twixt you and me ! Cecil Chesterton. The New Witness. WAR VERSE 243 SKY SIGNS ]]licn all the anus arc sponged and cleaned, and fuses (JO to store, ll'lien all the wireless stations cry — " Come home, you ships of ivar " — Come home again and leave patrol, no matter zvhere yoit be." We'll see the lights of England shine, Flashing again on the steaming line, As out of the dark the long gray hulls come rolling in from sea. The long-forgolten lights will shine, and gild the clouds ahead. Over the dark horizon-line, across the dreaming dead That went to sea tvilh the dark behind and the spin of a coin before. Mark the gleam of Orfordness, Showing a road we used to guess, From the Shetland Isles to Dover Cliffs — the shaded lane of war. Up the Channel with gleaming ports will homing squadrons go, And see the English coast alight zvith headlands all aglo7C With thirty thousand candle-power flung up from far Cris-nec. Portland Bill and the Needles' Light. 'I'ompions back in the guns to-night- For I'jiglish lights are meeting blench across the Soldiers' Way. 244 WAR VERSE When we come back to England then, ruith all the zvarring done, And paint and polish come up the side to ride on tube and gun, IVe'll know before the anchor's down, the tidings won't be new. Lizard along to the Isle of Wight, Every lamp was burning bright, Northern Lights or Trinity House — we had the news from you ! Klaxon. Blackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE 245 REPORTED MISSING My ihouijlu sliall never be that you are dead: W'lio laughed so lately in this quiet place. The dear and deei)-e\ed humor of that face Held somelhinic ever living, in Death's stead. Scornful I hear the flat things they have said And all their piteous platitudes of pain. I laugh ! I laugh ! — Eor you will come again — This heart would never beat if you were dead. The world's adrowse in twilight hush fulness, There's purple lilac in your little room, And somewhere out beyond the evening gloom Small boys are calling summer watercress. Of these familiar things I have no dread Being so very sure you are not dead. A. G. KiiowN. The Poetry Review. 246 WAR VERSE "THE SOUL OF A NATION" {March 28, 191S) The little things of which we lately chattered — The dearth of taxis or the dawn of spring; Themes we discussed as though they really mattered, Like rationed meat or raiders on the wing; — How thin it seems to-day, this vacant prattle, Drowned by the thunder rolling in the West, Voice of the great arbitrament of battle That puts our temper to the final test. Thither our eyes are turned, our hearts are straining, Where those we love, whose courage laughs at fear, Amid the storm of steel around them raining Go to their death for all we hold most dear. New-born of this supremest hour of trial. In quiet confidence shall be our strength. Fixed on a faith that will not take denial Nor doubt that we have found our soul at length. O England, staunch of nerve and strong of sinew. Best when you face the odds and stand at bay. Now show a watching world what stuff is in you ; Now make your soldiers proud of you to-day ! Owen Seaman. Punch. WAR VERSE 247 "... THAT HAVE NO DOUBTS" — Rudyard Kipliiuj. The last resort of Kitigs are zve, but the voice of peoples too — Ask the jj^iins of Valniy Ridge — Lost at the Beresina Bridge, When the Russian gims were roaring death and the Guard was charging through. Ultima Ratio Regis, zve — but he who has may hold, Se curantes Dei curant, Hear the gunners that strain and pant, As when before the rising gale the Great Armada rolled. Guus of fifty — sixty tons that roared at Jutland fight, Clatter and clang of hoisting shell ; See the flame where the salvo fell Amidst the flash of German guns against the wall of white. The sons of English carronadc or Spanish cidverin — The Danish windows shivered and broke When over the sea the children spoke, And groaning turrets rocked again as we went out and in. W'c have no passions to call our otvn, we zvork for serf or lord, Load us well and sponge us clean — Be your woman a slave or (lucen — And we will clear the road for you who hold us l)\ ihc sword. We come into our ozcn again and zcake to life anezv — Put your paper and i)ens away, T'or the whole of the world is ours to-da\', And it's we who'll do the talking now lo suKJoth the way for you. 248 WAR VERSE Hozviiz:cr gun or Seventy- five, the game is ours io play. And hills may quiver and mountains shake, But the line in front shall bend or break. What is it to us if the world is mad? For we are the Kings to-day. Klaxon. Blackwood's Magazine. WAR VERSE 249 EPIPHANY VISION (/;/ the Word) I'liis is the night of a Star. Dusk grow window and wall ; A Cross unseen floats red o'er the wrack of war; Silences fall In the house where the wounded are. " Good-night to all ! " Then I pause awhile by the open door, and see Their patient faces, pale through the blue smoke-rings, On the night of l^piphany. But who are these, who are changed utterly. Wearing a look of Kings? Brothers, whence do ye come? Royal and still, what Star have ye looked upon? — " From hill and valley, from many a city home We came, we endured till the last of strength was gone. Over the narrow sea. But what of a Star? We have only fought for home And babes on the mother's knee." (Their silence saith.) — Brothers, what do ye bring To the Christ Whom Kings adored? — " W^e cannot Icll. We might have fashioned once some simple thing;- Once we were swift, who now are very slow; We were skilled of hand, who bear the splint and ihe sling. We gave no thought to I'ain, in the \car ago, Whf) since h.'ivc j)asse(l i]in)U'_;h I loll. But what slvtuld wc bring Ilini now- we, derelicts nigh past mending? " 250 WAR VERSE (Frankincense, myrrh and gold; Winds His choristers, worlds about His knee. . . . Hath He room at all in His awful Treasury For the gifts our Kings unfold That can ne'er be told?) This is the night of a Star. This is the long road's ending. They are sleeping now ; they have brought their warrior best To the Lord their God Who made them; And lo ! He hath repaid them With rest. — llnis is the night of a Star. The laugh that rings through torment, the ready jest, Valor and youth, lost hope, and a myriad dreams .Splendidly given- He hath taken up to the inmost heart of Heaven. And now — while the night grows cold, and the ward-fire gleams — You may guess the tender Smile as He walketh hidden In the place where His Wise Ones are. Mary Adair-Macdonald. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 251 THE SONG OF THE BOMBARD Our faflicrs rode io baitle, Our fathers did prevail, Ji'ilh breastplate, greave and sollerci, Willi hauberk and camail. They broke a laiiee 2vith the Knights of France, .Ind flashed a jive-foot blade, All in the days of chivalry. Before the guns zuere made. Close in his flaming smithy A strong churl stooped and wrought, Hewed, hammered, pared and measured A wizard's life of thought. Our fatliers laughed, "Is the varlet daft, That he deems a knightly crest Shall (|uake when he vomits smoke and noise?" And the bombard heard them jest. Deep in his throat he answered (His voice was passing strong) : S(iuire, Baron, Earl and Princeling, Ye shall feel my stroke ere long! Never a Knight in his mail so bright lUit the bolts I cast can slay " ; The Knights charged home as the bombard spoke; And where are the Knights to-day ? List to the song of the bombard (Mis voice is passing clear) : ' Here in the ranks of I-'.ngland ! The Red Cross Knights are here! While still they call on the Lord of all And die for a Knightly King, In the souls of ICnglish gentlemen The old white spark shall spring!" '252 WAR VERSE Our fathers rode to battle, Our fathers did prevail. With breastplate, greave and solleret, With hauberk and camail. They broke a lance with the Knights of France, And flashed a five-foot blade, All in the days of chivalry, Before the guns were made. Punch. WAR VERSE 253 PRAYER BEFORE WAR {/Ingiist, 1914) Lord Cod, ere yet our drums are rolled, Kneeling: before Thine awful throne, We pray that us-ward as of old Thy favoring mercies may be shown — We who too often tilled with pride Have in our hearts Thy power denied And trusted to ourselves alone. Thou hast been gracious unto us, And stood as guardian at our gate; Steadied us on the perilous High path of our imperial fate; Yet when have we, our faults in view, With fear searched out and striven to do The work for which Thou mad'st us great ? Have we not, rather, turned aside Well knowing the right to do the wrong? How hast Thou, tolerant of our pride, Borne with our rebel hearts so long, And spared us who, as crowning sin. Have deemed that strength our own wherein Our feet were firm, our hands were strong? Rich altars have we raised to Thee And fruits and fallings on them laid. Well satisfied that men should see And marvel at our vain parade ; But that ftnc only sacrifice Which Thou, C) (]od! wilt not despise — A contrite heart -we have not made. 254 WAR VERSE And now when war confounds the world On Thy strong arm we fain would lean: Our flags ere this have been unfurled To ends that Thou hast sorrowing seen: Remember not that we of old Too oft unblessed by Thee were bold, For, see, to-day our hands are clean. Wherefore Thy help and strength we seek In this fierce quarrel upon us thrust, For, save Thou stand beside us, weak Are we although our cause is just: Thou know'st how hard for peace we strove, That without wrath e'en now we move And do but fight because we must. Nor less, because aroused by wrong And cries of far distress we go In the great name of Freedom strong To grapple with a ruthless foe, Thy guidance we beseech, for Thou, To whom in armor girt we bow, Alone to what we march dost know. The day of trial is come — the day So long foreseen, so fraught with fate; With troubled hearts once more we pray (Remembering Thee, ah, not too late!) That Thou for all our faults of will. Our pride, our greed, wilt hold us still To Thy great purpose dedicate. W. G. HoLi- The Dublin Review. WAR VERSE 255 FOR THE RED CROSS Ye thai have gentle hearts and fain To succor men in need, There is no voice could ask in vain \\ ith such a cause to plead — The cause of those that in your care, W ho know the debt to honor due. Confide the wounds they proudly wear, The wounds they took for you. Out of the shock of shattering spears. Of screaming shell and shard. Snatched from the smoke that blinds and sears, They come with bodies scarred, And count the hours that idly toll, Restless until their hurts be healed. And they may fare, made strong and whole, 'J'o face another field. And yonder where the battle's waves Broke yesterday o'erhead, Where now the swift and shallow graves Cover our English dead, Think how your sisters play their part, W ho serve as in a holy shrine, Tender of hand and brave of heart, Under the Red Cross sign. Ah, by that symbol, worshipped still, Of life-blood sacrificed, That lonely Cross on Calvary's hill Red witli the wounds of Christ; r.y that free gift to none denied, Let Pity pierce you like a sword, And Love go out to open wide The gate of life restored. OWKN SiCAMAN. Punch. 256 WAR VERSE A LAMENT FROM THE DEAD Peace ! Vex us not : we are Dead, We are the Dead for England slain. (O England and the English Spring, The English Spring, the Spring-tide rain: Ah, God, dear God, in England now!) Peace! Vex us not: we are the Dead; The snows of Death are on our brow: Peace ! Vex us not ! Brothers, the footfalls of the year (The Maiden month's in England now!) I feel them pass above my head: Alas, they echo on my heart ! (Ah, God, dear God, but England now!) Peace ! Vex me not, for I am Dead ; The snows of Death are on my brow : Peace ! Vex me not ! Brothers, and I — I taste again, Again I taste the Wine of Spring. (O Wine of Spring and Bread of Love, O lips that kiss and mouths that sing: Love and Spring in England now!) Peace ! Vex me not, but pass above : Sweet English Love, fleet English Spring — Pass ! Vex me not ! Brothers, my brothers, I pray you — hark! 1 hear a song upon the wing, Upon the silver v;ing of morn : It is — dear God! it is the lark — It is the lark above the corn. The fledgling corn of England's Spring! Ah ! pity thou my wearied heart : Cease! Vex me not! ^r 'I* *1* *|» WAR VERSh: 257 Brothers, I beg you be at rest r»e c|uite at rest for Ensjland's sake: 'I'he tlowertul h(nirs in England now Sing low your sleep to English ears: And would ye have your sorrows wake The Mother's heart to further tears? Xay ! be at peace, her lo\al dead Sleep ! Vex her not ! W. E. K. The Poetry Kcvieiv. isS WAR VERSE / SEDAN I, from a window where the Meiise is wide, Looked Eastward, out to the September night. The men that in the hopeless battle died Rose and re-formed and marshalled for the fight. A brumal army vague and ordered large For mile on mile by one pale General, I saw them lean by companies to the charge ; But no man living heard the bugle call. And fading still, and pointing to their scars. They rose in lessening cloud where, gray and high, Dawn lay along the Heaven in misty bars. But, gazing from that Eastern casement, I Saw the Republic splendid in the sky. And round her terrible head the morning stars. HiLAIRE BeLLOC. The New Witness. WAR VERSE 259 ABI, VIATOR If thou hast seen the standard d\m Droop in its mesh of dust and grime Above the carven hands of him Who bore it in some ancient time; If thou hast seen the silent sword Rust redly in its tattered sheath, Hast caught the echo of the word That flung an English glove at death, And }'et thy pulses march unstirred, And still thy breath comes calm and slow, Pass on — no Englishman art thou ! If thou canst hear and see to-day The distant clamor and the fume Of crimson fate, and yet canst say " The gain is mine, be theirs the doom." If thou thy unthrilled hands canst fold, If thou canst check thy seaward tread, Canst shun the dust and guard the gold, Thou hast no kinship with thy dead; Ah, if thy craven heart is cold, Pause not the perilous page to scan — Pass on — thou art no Englishman! I>ut if the distant unison Of swooping sword and flying dart, Of straining sail and nuittering gun. Touches thy spirit and thy heart; If I-Jigland's day and I^ngland's call Find thee a son of England, then Thrju canst not falter — thou, nor all Her noble heritage of men ; Pass on — she stands, although we fall. Pass on unshaken though stars shake — Thyself canst tell what road to lake! The British Rcviczv. 26o WAR VERSE TWENTY-TWO Twenty-two At the end of the week, if he'd seen it through. We left his grave in the cure's hands ; I met him as I was coming away — A white-haired man in cassock and bands — And I showed him where it lay. " Twenty-two — Yet he's older than you or me, M'sieu, And the riddle of time for him is read. Yes, I will see the grave kept trim, And after the prayers for our own are said I will add a prayer for him." Twenty-two — Some one will bitterly weep for you ; Yet she'll lift her head with a wonderful pride : " He was my son, and his life he gave. Shall I grudge such a gift, tho' my heart has died? He was brave : I must be brave." Twenty-two — Ah ! for the dreams that can never come true : All that the world should have had in store ! He had will to die though he loved to live. We must be ready to follow — the more That we've many less years to give. Punch. WAR VERSE 261 THE VOICE OF RACHEL WEEPING {Belgium, 1914) Beloved, little beloved, where shall I find you? Not at the ends of the earth, in the depths of the sea. On the winds, in the stars, in the desolate spaces of heaven. Yesterday mine, to-day yon have ceased to be! The kings of the earth and the rulers take counsel to- gether, But your voice and your eyes that looked love to my eyes are gone. Fire and rapine and sword are flaming around me, They have ravished my child from my life, and my life goes on. Beloved, little beloved, where shall I find you? I gave you your shape and your smile and your inno- cent breath, And the travail of birth that I knew was as naught to the rending Of my body and spirit and soul in this travail of death. All religions forsake, and philosophies fail me. Dark as the primal mother I stand alone. One wild (|uestion cries in my night and the answer Comes not — His sky is silent, His earth a stone. God of our fathers — speak, reveal, enlighten! Lo, with despair my soul grows wan and wild ! Yet, O God, hear me not, heed me not, count mc as nothing — Only let it be well with her, my child I BiCATKici: Ckkgan. The Saturday Review. 262 WAR VERSE TO THE MEN WHO HAVE DIED FOR ENGLAND All ye who fought since England was a name, Because Her soil was holy in your eyes; AVho heard Her summons and confessed Her claim, Who flung against a world's time-hallow'd lies The truth of English freedom — fain to give Those last lone moments, careless of your pain, Knowing that only so must England live And win, by sacrifice, the right to reign — Be glad, that still the spur of your bequest Urges your heirs their threefold way along — The way of Toil that craveth not for rest. Clear Honor, and stark Will to punish wrong! The seed ye sow'd God quicken'd with His Breath ; The crop hath ripen'd — lo, there is no death ! Punch. WAR VERSE 263 IN WAR TIME Now strikes the hour upon the clock, The black sheep may rebuild the years; May lift the father's pride he broke, And wipe away his mother's tears. To him, the mark for thrifty scorn, Ciod hath another chance to give. Sets in his heart a flame new-born V,y which his muddied soul may live. Hiis is the day of the prodigal, The decent people's shame and grief; When he shall make amends for all, The way to glory's bloody and brief. Clean from his baptism of blood, New from the hre he springs again, In shining armor, bright and good. Beyond the wise home-keeping men. Somewhere to-night — no tears be shed ! With shaking hands they turn the sheet. To fmd his name among the dead, I'lower of the Army and the Fleet. They tell with proud and stricken face Of his white boyhood far away — Who talked of trouble or disgrace? " Our splendid son is dead ! " they say. Katiiauim: Tynan. The British Review. 264 WAR VERSE THE CLERK Perched upon an office stool, neatly adding figures, With cuffs gone shiny and a pen behind his ear; Deep in Liabilities, Goods and Double Entry, So he worked from year to year. Diligent and careful, hedged about with figures. Given soul and body to discount and per cent; Bounded by the columns of Purchase Book and Journal, Soberly his moments went. Now his pen has ceased from adding rows of figures, Ceased from ruling ledgers and entering amounts: Clad in sodden khaki, with a gun in Flanders He is balancing accounts. B. H. M. Hetherington. The Bookman. WAR VERSE 265 OUR FIGHTING MEN The war is like the Judgment Day — All sham, all pretext tc^rn away; And swift the searching hours reveal Hearts good as gold, souls true as steel. I'lest saints and martyrs in disguise, Concealed ere-while from holden eyes. And now we feel that all around Have angels walked the well-known ground; Not winged and strange beyond our ken, But in the form of common men. God's messengers from Heaven's own sphere — Ln recognized because so near. Ella Fuller Maitland. The Spectator. 266 WAR VERSE UNMENTIONED IN DISPATCHES " The horse and the mule which have no understanding." The lowliest combatants are we; We come not hither of our will, But torn from out our homes afar To tread these fields all waste with war Where beast and rider both they kill. The call to strife we never heard, Our dull ears miss it even yet; We know not why men fight or die, Gain laurel crowns or turn and fly, What task can be before them set. In days of peace we envied dogs Who seemed to live more near to men; Lay on their beds, and ate their food, And looked as if they understood Their master's words, his gun, and pen. But now the dogs are left behind. They come not to this dreadful place; Companions of man's home and play, Not of his awful judgment day. His supreme glory or disgrace. * « 4: * 4: 4: ale The humble horse, who sweats like man And knows the soldier's drudgery, Alone of all the four-foot kind Must share man's woe w^ith equal mind. His courage, and his victory. WAR VERSE 267 Hunsjer and thirst, fatigue and pain, The horse bears all and says no word; He llinches not at cannon's roar, At smoke and fire, din and gore. Nor at the flash of naked sword. The battle joined, high swells his crest, • His nostril quivers, winged his form, Like ocean's billow rolls his mane, Thunder his hoofs, his eye is flame. His onset dire as the storm. O noble fate ! Of beasts elect Co-worker with your king and god — Bear hardness, toil, disease, and strain ! Bear stripes and wounds, all loss, no gain ! And meekl}- bow beneath your rod. Your grave awaits you ; far from home Awful and tragic and forgot ; But man shall reap where you have sown And you have fallen to win his crown. You've died for him ; and when you rise In some remoter Paradise He'll meet you and disown you not. Helen Hestkr Colvill. The Poclry Review. 268 WAR VERSE V. A. D. There's an angel in our ward as keeps a-flittin' to and fro With fifty eyes upon 'er wherever she may go; She's as pretty as a picture and as bright as mercury, And she wears the cap and apron of a V. A. D. The Matron she is gracious and the Sister she is kind, But they wasn't born just yesterday and lets you know their mind; The M. O. and the Padre is as thoughtful as can be, But they ain't so good to look at as our V. A. D. She's a honorable miss because 'er father is a dook, But, Lord, you'd never guess it and it ain't no good to look For 'er portrait in the illustrated papers, for you see She ain't an advertiser, not our V, A. D. Not like them that wash a teacup in an orficer's canteen And then " Engaged in War Work " in the weekly Press is seen; She's on the trot from morn to night and busy as a bee, And there's 'caps of wounded Tommies bless that V. A.D. She's the lightest 'and at dressin's and she polishes the floor. She feeds Bill Smith who'll never never use 'is 'ands no more; And we're all of us supporters of the harristocracy 'Cos our weary days are lightened by that V. A. D, WAR VERSE 269 And wlieii the War is over, some knighl or belted earl, What's survived from killin' ticrmans, will take 'er iov 'is girl ; They'll go and see the pictures and then 'ave shrimps and tea ; 'E's a lucky man as gets 'er — and don't I wish 'twas me ! Funch. 270 WAR VERSE "REAL PRESENCE" Not on an Altar shall mine eyes behold Thee, Tho' Thou art sacrifice, Thou too art Priest; Bend, that the feeble arms of Love enfold Thee, So Faith shall bloom, increased. Not on a Cross, with passion buds around Thee, Thorn-crowned and lonely, in Thy suffering ; Nay, but as watching Mary met and found Thee, Dawn-robed, the Risen King, Not in the past, but in the present glorious, Not in the future, that I cannot span. Living and breathing, over death victorious. My God . . . my Brother-Man. Ivan Adair. The Poetry Review^ WAR VERSE 271 BOAT-RACE DAY, 1915 No sweatered men in scanty shorts This morning brings upon the shp; To-day no anxious cox exhorts Care for that frail and shining ship ; The gray stream runs; the March winds blow; These things were long and long ago. Now at the need of this dear land All that is theirs is Hers to take: Unfaltering service — heart and hand Wont to give all for honor's sake ; They builded better than thev knew \\'ho " kept it long " and " pulled it through." Not herq their hour of great emprise; No mounting cheer toward Mortlake roars; Lulled to full tide the river lies Unfretted by the fighting oars; The long high toil of strenuous play Serves England elsewhere well to-day. Punch. 272 WAR VERSE ATTILA Swift the flaming wings of death Beat against the laboring breath. Blazing hearth and anguished cry Smite against the tranquil sky, As the legions thunder by. For the ruthless, tragic beat Of those fierce, relentless feet, Broken faith, and tarnished sword, Judgment, and not mercy, Lord! While upon the fields of red, Sleep the unremembered dead. While the homeless, in the glare Of the ruins burnt and bare, Face a hell of black despair. For those silent heaps that lie Witness to a silent sky. Shattered homes, dishonored sword, Judgment, and not mercy, Lord! But when stands the naked soul. Shamed and broken, at the goal. When the tragic eyes can see. Through that cloud of infamy, Nothing but itself — and Thee, Love invincible shall plead, Hopeless anguish, deepest need. Pity sheathe the flaming sword, Mercy, and not judgment. Lord. G. R. Glasgow. Chambers's Journal. WAR \'ERSE 273 THE SOLDIER OF THE SOUTH (A mountain village on the French Riviera, December, ipi^) Under the flag o' France for which he died This child of hers we lay, In the small church upon the mountain-side Where once he used to pray With her who all alone is weeping here to-day. The blue, blue skies Keep watch above the village where he lies, r)Ut never more will gaze into his eyes; And in his ears there ne'er again will be The crooning song that sings eternally The blue, blue sea, ^c ^ ^ 3^ ^ ^ ^^ O Mother France, Thou of the steadfast glance And grave sweet mouth ! Of all thy sons who gave their all for thee. Hath any given a greater gift than he W'jio for thy sake His birthright did forsake In this all-radiant country of the South? As one who goes out from the warmth and light To breast the bitter night, He left the orange groves, the olive trees That turn to silver in the scented breeze; He left his darling there, A reel carnation in her twilight hair; Left love and sf)ng and sunshine— and went forth To fight thy battle in the snow-swept North. 274 WAR VERSE Mother, tho' thy brave eyes with tears be dim, Shed one more tear for him, And let the memory in thy heart abide Of him whom on this day Within his Httle mountain-church we lay Under thy flag, O France, for which he died. George Greenland. The A thenaeum. WAR VERSE 275 MERCHANTMEN All honor be lo merchanlnien, And ships of all degree, In warlike dangers manifold, Who sail and keep the sea, In peril of unlilten coast And dealh-besprinkled foam, Who daily dare a hundred deaths To bring their cargoes home. A liner out of Liverpool — a tanker from the Clyde — A hard-run tramp from- anywhere— a tug from Mersey- side — A cattle-boat from Birkenhead— a coaler from the Tyne — All honor be to merchantmen while any star shall shine ! All honor be to merchantmen, And ships both great and small. The swift and strong to run their race And smite their foes withal ; The little ships that sink or swim, And pay the pirates' toll, Unarmored save by valiant hearts, And strong in naught but soul. All honor be to merchantmen. As long as tides shall run, Who gave the seas their glorious dead Erom rise to set of sun ; All honor be to merchantmen While I'jigl.'ind's nrmie shall stand, Who sailed and fought, and dared and died, And served and saved their land. 276 WAR VERSR A sailing ship from Liverpool — a tanker from the Clyde — A schooner from the West Countrie — a tug from Mersey- side — A fishing smack from Grimsby town — a coaler from the Tyne — All honor be to merchantmen while sun and moon shall shine ! C. Fox Smith. The London Chronicle. WAR VERSE 277 DEATH AND THE FLOWERS Now is Death only plucking flowers; he leaves The garnered grain and sunset colored fruit. Neither to bending bough, nor mellow root Xor threshing of the amber harvest sheaves He comes ; but where in joyous youth serene The sunny blossoms laugh and fear no sickle keen. Perchance he wearies of his ancient ways The hoards of treasure ripe and over ripe, The stale, familiar gleanings, true to type — Seedtime and sere and climacteric days ; For now the dusky halls of Hades gleam With precious flower-light and broken hope and dream. Gone; all their promise gone, for nevermore Shall sun and rain rejoice to do them good, Or glad earth labor to create their food. Naked their places, and where, heretofore, The shining blossoms sprang, that now are sped. Only remain the stocks who built and nourished. The reaper reaps, of ruth all innocent. The sparkle and the splendor and the glow Sink into nothingness beneath his blow, Where the swathe falls and withers and is spent. Yet, sweeter than all fruit the days fulfill. Fragrance of flowers shall haunt our empty gardens still. Eden Piiillpotts. The Westminster Gazette. 278 WAR VERSE THE VETERAN Where are my comrades who joined in the first of the fighting ? Where are they now in the smoke of the conflict con- cealed? Their rifles are dumb, and the silence is grim and affright- ing ; Night is at hand — and I am alone in the field. Some have gone home to rest for a while from their labors, And some have gone home to a rest that Earth never has known ; But none flinched or failed in their trust to keep faith with their neighbors — God grant me their strength to keep faith in the dark- ness — alone ! The Bookman. WAR VERSE 279 WHERE THE FOUR WINDS MEET There are songs of the north and songs of the south, And songs of the east and west ; But songs of the place where the four winds meet Are the ones that we love the best. And where do the four wuids meet? " you ask. The answer is ready at hand — \\'here\ er our dear ones chance to be By air, or by sea, or land." So the sailor, keeping his midnight watch '■Mid icicles, snow, and sleet. Can think of a village near Portsmouth town As the place where the four winds meet. And mother, perhaps, and sweetheart true Pray hard for the North Sea Fleet, And harder still for the boy who's gone To his place, where the four winds meet. And the man on guard at the " firing-step," 'Mid star-shells shimmering down, Can think of his home — where the four winds meet In some sheltered English town. And thoughts may fly to the distant trench. Whatever its name or " street," For " Somewhere in France," seems far less vague If we add, " where the four winds meet." And the pilot steers thro' the trackless waste While the engines throb and boat, Flouting surprise, with the Army's eyes High up where the four winds meet. 28o WAR VERSE And to those who mourn comes a cheering cry, Which the angels in heaven repeat, " Grieve not, brave hearts; we await you here — Here, where the four winds meet." There are songs of the north and songs of the south. The east and the west complete ; But here is a song of the place we love, Which is called, " Where the four winds meet." Geoffrey Dalrymple Nash. Chambers's Journal. WAR VERSE 281 SALONIKA IN NOVEMBER L'p above the gray hills the wheeling birds are calling, Round about the cold gray hills in never-resting flight; Far along the marshes a drifting mist is falling, Scattered tents and sandy plain melt into the night. Round about the gray hills rumbles distant thunder. Echoes of the mighty guns firing night and day, — Gray guns, long guns, that smite the hills asunder, Grumbling and rumbling, and telling of the fray. Out among the islands twinkling lights are glowing, Distant little fairy lights, that gleam upon the bay ; All along the broken road gray transport wagons going Up to where the long gray guns roar and crash alway. Up above the cold gray hills the wheel-birds are crying, Brother calls to brother, as they pass in restless flight. Lost souls, dead souls, voices of the dying, Circle o'er the hills of Greece and wail into the night. Brian Hill. The Poetry Review. 282 WAR VERSE EUTHANASY Prince Azrael, wan Azrael, The ghastly Cavalier, To view this battle-field of earth On his pale horse drew near. Ah ! never since our world had birth More terrible his spear ! Amid the dying and the dead His path has always lain ; Then wherefore doth he veil his head Before these newly slain? It cannot be that Angel dread Is touched by human pain ! " Naught ever saw I like to this," The bloodless horseman cried, " No hero death-bed like to this In all my age-long ride ; Oh ! never men so died, I wis, Since men have lived and died. " All shrank from me, all fled from me, Save wretches in despair ; I followed with a hunter's glee Or slew them unaware ; But these ! They smile and run to me. As though my face were fair." He turned him to a new-born ghost, " What miracle is here, That I, whom men have feared the most, From thee should have no fear? For youth was thine, and well thou know'st How life in youth is dear," WAR X'ERSE 283 " Yea ! dear was life, thou bitter king," The proud glad ghost re[)lied, " We perished in our morn of spring, Youth's garland cast aside ; But there was yet a dearer thing, Twas that for which we died." R. 11. Law. The Spectator, 284 WAR VERSE THE DEAD The dead are with us everywhere, By night and day ; No street we tread but they have wandered there Who now he still beneath the grass Of some shell-scarred and distant plain, Beyond the fear of death, beyond all pain. And in the silence you can hear their noiseless footsteps pass — The dead are with us always, night and day. Where once the sound of mirth would rouse The sleeping town. The laughter has died out from house to house; And where through open windows late At night would float delightful song. And glad-souled music from the light-heart revel-throng, In quadrangle and street the windows darkly wait For those who cannot wake the sleeping town. This city once a bride to all Who entered here, A lover magical who had in thrall The souls of those who once might know Her kiss upon their lips and brow — A golden, laughter-hearted lover then, but now A mother gray, who sees Death darken as they go, Son after son of those who entered there. Yet sometimes at the dead of night I see them come — The darkness is suffused with a great light From that radiant, countless host: WAR VERSE 285 No face but is triumphant there, A flaming crown of youth iniperisliable they wear. A thousand years that passed have gained what we to-day have lost, The splendor of their sacrifice for years to come. A. E. Murray. The Nation. 286 WAR VERSE THE CALL OF ENGLAND [Every lover of England is bound to give what he can spare — and something more — for the help of those who may suffer distress through the War. Gifts to the National Relief Fund should be addressed to H. R. H. The Prince of Wales, at Buckingham Palace.] Come, all ye who love her well, Ye whose hopes are one with hers, One with hers the hearts that swell When the pulse of memory stirs; She from whom your life ye take Claims you ; how can you forget ? Come, your honor stands at stake ! Pay your debt! By her sons that hold the deep. Nerves at strain and sinews tense, Sleepless-eyed that ye may sleep Girdled in a fast defence ; — - By her sons that face the fire Where the battle-lines are set — Give your country her desire! Pay your debt! He, that, leaving child and wife In our keeping, unafraid. Goes to dare the deadly strife, Shall he see his trust betrayed? Shall he come again and find Hollow cheeks and eyelids wet? Guard them as your kith and kind ! Pay your debt! Punch. WAR \1:RSE 287 Sirs, we should he slinmed indeed If the bitter cry for bread, Children's cries in cruel need. Rose and fell uncomforted! Ah, but since the patriot glow Burns in English bosoms yet. Twice and thrice ye will, I know, Pay your debt ! Owen Seaman. 288 WAR VERSE QUEENSLANDERS Lean brown lords of the Brisbane beaches, Lithe-limbed kings of the Culgoa bends, Princes that ride where the Roper reaches. Captains that camp where the gray Gulf ends — Never such goodly men together Marched since the kingdoms first made war; Nothing so proud as the Emu Feather Waved in an English wind before ! Ardor and faith of those keen brown faces ! Challenge and strength of those big brown hands ! Eyes that have flashed upon wide-flung spaces ! Chins that have conquered in fierce far lands ! — Flood could not daunt them. Drought could not break them; Deep in their hearts is their sun's own fire; Blood of thine own blood, England, take them! These are the swords of thy soul's desire ! Will H. Ogilvie. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 289 MISSING " He was last seen going over the parapet into the German trendies." What did >oti find after war's fierce alarms, When the kind earth gave you a resting phice, And comforting night gathered you in her arms, With Hght dew faUing on your upturned face? Did your heart beat, remembering what had been? Did you still hear around you, as you lay. The wings of airmen sweeping by unseen. The thunder of the guns at close of day ? All nature stoops to guard your lonely bed ; Sunshine and rain fall with their calming breath ; You need no pall, so young and newly dead. Where the Lost Legion triumphs over death. When with the morrow's dawn the bugle blew. For the first time it summoned you in vain ; The Last Post does not sound for such as you ; Hut God's Reveille wakens you again. Punch. 290 WAR VERSE TO THE MEMORY OF FIELD-MARSHAL EARL ROBERTS, OF Kandahar and Pretoria (Born, i8s2. Died, on Service at the Front, Nov. 14th, 1914) He died, as soldiers die, amid the strife, Mindful of England in his latest prayer; God, of His love, would have so fair a life Crowned with a death as fair. He might not lead the battle as of old. But, as of old, among his own he went, Breathing a faith that never once grew cold, A courage still unspent. So was his end ; and, in that hour, across The face of War a wind of silence blew, And bitterest foes paid tribute to the loss Of a great heart and true. But we who loved him, what have we to lay For sign of worship on his warrior-bier? What homage, could his lips but speak to-day, Would he have held most dear? Not grief, as for a hfe untimely reft; Not vain regret for counsel given in vain; Not pride of that high record he has left, Peerless and pure of stain ; But service of our lives to keep her free. The land he served ; a pledge above his grave To give her even such a gift as he, The soul of loyalty, gave. WAR VERSE 291 That oath we plii^ht, as now the trumpets swell His requiem, and the men-at-arms stand mute, And through the mist the guns he loved so well Thunder a last salute ! Owen Seaman. Piincli. 292 WAR VERSE GIFTS OF THE DEAD Ye who in Sorrow's tents abide, Mourning your dead with hidden tears, Bethink ye what a weaUh of pride They've won you for the coming years. Grievous the pain ; but, in the day When all the cost is counted o'er. Would it be best that ye should say : " We lost no loved ones in the war "? Who knows ? But proud then shall ye stand That best, most honored boast to make : " My lover died for his dear land," Or, " My son fell for England's sake." Christlike they died that we might live ; And our redeemed lives would we bring, With aught that gratitude may give To serve you in your sorrowing. And never a pathway shall ye tread, No foot of seashore, hill, or lea, But ye may think : " The dead, my dead, Gave this, a sacred gift, to me." Habberton Lulham. The Spectator. WAR VERSE 293 AFTER-DAYS When the last gun has long withheld Its thunder, and its mouth is sealed, Strong men shall drive the furrow straight On some remembered battle-field. Untroubled they shall hear the loud And gusty driving of the rains, And birds with immemorial voice Sing as of old in leafy lanes. The stricken, tainted soil shall be Again a flowery paradise — Pure with the memory of the dead And purer for their sacrifice. Eric Chilman. The Poetry Review. 294 WAR VERSE IN WAR Oh, Christ, Whose word in GaUlee Drew silence o'er an angry sea And turned the tempest's rage aside Till every wave was pacified, Now hear again the anguished cry, " Have pity. Master, lest we die." Oh, Christ, Who in compassion wept Because a brother lay and slept, And yet who opened Death's dark door And set it thus, for evermore, Again with many mourners weep. For those beloved who lie and sleep. Oh, Christ, Whose word abideth yet, Forgive us, if our hearts forget That life and death and sea and land Are held within Thy saving Hand And that the storm of human will Must die before Thy " Peace ! be still." Ivan Adair. The Bookman. WAR VERSE 295 THE CALL Hark ! 'Tis the rush of the horses, The crash of the galloping gun ! The stars are out of their courses; The hour of Doom has begun. Leap from thy scabbard, O sword! This is the Day of the Lord! Prate not of peace any longer, Laughter and idlesse and ease ! L'p, every man that is stronger ! Leave but the priest on his knees! Quick, every hand to the hilt ! Who striketh not — his the guilt ! Call not each man on his brother ! Cry not to Heaven to save! Thou art the man — not another — Thou, to off glove and out glaive ! Fight ye who ne'er fought before ! Fight ye old fighters the more ! Oh, but the thrill and the splendor. The sudden new knowledge— I can ! To fawn on no hireling defender, P.ut fight one's own fight as a man! On woman's love won we set store ; To win one's own manhood is more. Who hath a soul that will glow not, vSet face to face with the foe? "Is life worth living?" — I know not: Death is worth d\ing, T know. Aye, I would gamble with Hell. And — losing such stakes — say, 'Tis well ! F. W. BOURDILLON. The Spectator. 296 WAR VERSE A SOLDIER'S LITANY When the foemen's hosts draw nigh, Wlien the standards wave on high, When the brazen trumpets call, Some to triumph, some to fall, Lord of Hosts, we cry to Thee, Libera nos Domine ! When the opposing squadrons meet, When the bullets fall like sleet, When the vanguards forward dash. When the flames of cannon flash, Lord of Hosts, we cry to Thee, Libera nos Domine ! When mingled in the awful rout, Vanquished's cries and Victor's shout, Horses' screams and wounded's groan. Dying, comfortless, alone, Lord of Hosts, we cry to Thee, Libera nos Domine ! And when night's shadows round us close, God of Battles, succor those, Those, whose hearts shall ever burn For loved ones, never to return. Lord of Hosts, we cry to Thee, Libera nos Domine ! (Save us. Lord). Richard Raleigh, 2d Lieut., 0. and B. L. I., France. The Poetry Review. WAR VERSE 29^ THE MEN WHO MAN The men who man our batteries, The men who serve our guns, Thev need not honeyed flatteries. For they are Britain's sons! They go, when Duty speeds them, Wherever bullets fly ; Wherever England needs them, When Duty bids, they die. The men who man our strongholds. Or march to yonder field Where Valor against Wrong holds A realm that scorns to yield, From Chiltern Hills or Grampians May pour their living tide. But ail are England's champions And all are England's pride. And lo ! how the abhorrence Of sceptred crime can join The Thames and the St. Lawrence, The Liffey and the Boyne. For England need but ask aid Where'er her branches grow, And like a leaping cascade It thunders on the foe. Our cheery sailors, lapt in The maiden sea's light sleep, From commodore and captain To all who man the deep, Thev hear arouiid their bed nought But echoes of their fame. And well they man the Dreadnought Who dread not aught but shame. 298 WAR VERSE And whether cahnly harbored, Or when the rocking State Lurches to port and starboard, They sail the seas of Fate; With everlasting laughter They luff to wind and rain, Aforetime and hereafter The men who man the main. The men who man Great Britain, And light for royal George, On battle's anvil smitten Leap mightier from the forge: Like oaks in Orkney's rough spring They flourish torn and blown, For all are Honor's offspring And all are England's own. The men who man this nation, And sow her fame abroad, They ask not acclamation, They need not England's laud ; And when too late it finds them. And falls on lifeless ears, Where yon red tempest blinds them They need but England's tears. Yet, while the storm grows vaster Around them and above, In triumph or disaster They shall not lack our love — They who to Glory's fanning This streamer have unfurled, The men whose joy is manning, The men who man the world ! William Watson. The Saturday Review. WAR VERSE 299 THE SEARCH-LIGHTS Political morality diflers from iiulividual morality, because there is no power above the State. — General Von Bernhardi. Shadow by shadow, stripped for fight, The lean black cruisers search the sea. NiglU-long their level shafts of light Revolve and find no enemy. Only they know each leaping wave May hide the lightning and their grave. And, in the land they guard so well, Is there no silent watch to keep? An age is dying; and the bell Rings midnight on a vaster deep; But over all its waves once more The search-lights move froin shore to shore. And captains that we thought were dead, And dreamers that we thought were dumb, And voices that we thought were fled Arise and call us, and we come: And " Search in thine own soul," they cry, " For there, too, lurks thine enemy." Search for the foe in thine own soul, The sloth, the intellectual pride, The tri\ial jest that veils the goal For which our fathers lived and died; The lawless dreams, the cynic art. That rend thy nobler self apart. Not far, not far into the night These level swords of light cm pierce: Yet for her faith docs I'.ngland fight. Her faith in this our imivcrse. Believing Truth and Justice draw From ff)unts of everlasting law. 300 WAR VERSE Therefore a Power above the State, The unconquerable Power, returns. The fire, the fire that made her great, Once more upon her ahar burns. Once more, redeemed and healed and whole She moves to the Eternal Goal. Alfred Noyes. The Times. WAR VERSE 301 WHERE ARE YOU GOING, GREAT-HEART? Where are you going, Great-Heart, With your eager face and your fiery grace? — Where are you going, Great-Heart^^ " To fight a fight with all my might, For Truth and Justice, God and Right, To grace all Life with His fair Light." Then God go with you, Great-Heart! Where are you going, Great-Heart? " To beard the Uevil in his den ; To smite him with the strength of ten; To set at large the souls of men." Then God go ivith you, Great- Heart! Where are you going, Great-Heart? " To end the rule of knavery ; To break the yoke of slavery ; To give the world delivery." Then God go li'ith you, Great-Heart! Where arc you going, Great-Heart? " To hurl high-stationed evil down ; To set the Cross above the crow n ; To spread abroad My King's renown." Then God go with you, Great-Heart! Where are you going, Great-Heart .' " To cleanse the earth f)f noisome things; To draw from life its poison-slings; To give free play to l-'recdom's wings." Then God go with you, dreal Urarl! 302 WAR VERSE Where are you going, Great-Heart? " To lift To-day above the Past; To make To-morrow sure and fast ; To nail God's colours to the mast." Then God go with you, Great-Heart 1 Where are you going, Great-Heart? " To break down old dividing-lines ; To carry out My Lord's designs; To build again His broken shrines." _ Then God go with you, Great-Heart! Where are you going, Great-Heart? " To set all burdened peoples free ; To win for all God's liberty ; To 'stablish His Sweet Sovereignty." * God gocth with you, Great-Heart! John Oxen ham. From "The Vision Splendid." Copyright, 1917, by George H. Doran Company. WAR VERSE 303 A LULLABY Because some men in khaki coats Are marching out to war, Beneath a torn old flag that floats As proudly as before ; Because they will not stop or stay, But march with eager tread, A little baby far away Sleeps safely in her bed. Because some grim, gray sentinels Stand always silently, \\ here each dull shadow falls and swells. Upon a restless sea ; Because their lonely watch they keep, With keen and wakeful eyes, A little child may safely sleep Until the sun shall rise. Because some swift and shadowy things Hold patient guard on high, Like birds or sails or shielding wings Against a stormy sky ; Because a strange light spreads and sweeps Across a darkened way, A little baby softly sleeps Until the dawn of day. G. R. Glasgow. Chambers's Journal. -iOl ToiLu - / Cfi k r / l-iit"! K f]«P • 1 ff-f J » r7 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. AA 000 295 799 i