UNIVERSITY OF CA RIVERSIDE LIBRARY 
 
 ri^ 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
CONTINGENT DITTIES. 
 
CONTINGENT 
 DITTIES 
 
 Jind Other Soldier Songs 
 of the Great War 
 
 FRANK S. BROWN 
 
 Sergeant, P.P.C.L.I. 
 (The Pats.) 
 
 Edited by 
 
 HoLBROOK Jackson 
 
 Sampson Low, Marston & Co., Ltd. 
 
 LONDON 
 1915 
 
D 
 
 TO 
 
 H, E. C. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Blo7u out, you bi/gles, over the rich Dead ! 
 
 There's none of these so lonely and poor of old. 
 But, d) ing, has made tis rarer gifts than gold. 
 
 7 hcsc laid the world aivay ; pound out the red 
 
 Swcd 7vine of youth ; gave up the years to be 
 Of Ivor k and joy, and ihat unhoped serene 
 2hat men call age ; and those who would have 
 been, 
 
 7 heir sons, they gave, their immortality. 
 
 Rupert Brooke. 
 
 No nation goes to war other than seriously : 
 neither have we. But, after our manner, we 
 have hidden our seriousness in laughter and 
 song. Yet the earnestness of our soldiers 
 reveals itself in spite of that invineihle gaiety 
 of bearing which has baffled the less observant 
 among our friends and enemies. It is revealed 
 in the letters from the Front which have been 
 published in the newspapers ; and again in the 
 numerous poems born in the war zone (some- 
 times in the trenches under fire) and in the 
 military encampments throughout the Empire. 
 As editor of T.I\'s Weekly it has been my 
 privilege and good fortune to read much in 
 this inspiring literature of the moment, and in 
 that way I became acquainted with the verses 
 which follow. 
 
 In January la^t of the present year Sergeant 
 Frank I5rown called at my office in Covent 
 Garden with a packet of poems under his arm. 
 
His name was not unknown to me, owing to 
 the fact that he had submitted some of his work 
 to the literary critic of the above paper, who 
 had in turn drawn my attention to it. Brown 
 had come to England with the first Canadian 
 Contingent, holding the position of Sergeant 
 in the Third Company of Princess Patricia's 
 Canadian Light Infantry. At the time of our 
 correspondence his regiment had proceeded to 
 P>ance, but the soldier-poet, much to his 
 disgust, had been left behind, temporarily unfit 
 through an influenza attack. His first letters 
 to me were written from Lark Hill Hospital, 
 Salisbury Plain. 
 
 Fair, slight but sturdy, keen-eyed, self-con- 
 fident but unassuming ; such is my impression 
 of the young soldier who came into my room 
 on that grey January morning. He was the 
 type of the British soldier : healthy, cheerful, 
 untroubled by mental subtlety or overweening 
 ambition, but willing to square brain and brawn 
 with the general effort towards the attainment of 
 an end known to be righteous and certain. All 
 this was evident from the external view ; but the 
 intimacy of conversation revealed exceptional 
 characteristics. It was evident that Sergeant 
 Brown resembled the admirable average type of 
 British soldier only by an efibrt of the will, 
 born, probably, of an equally British and equally 
 admirable objection to being thought remark- 
 able. 
 
 On the three or four occasions upon which 
 we met, I learned to value the mental qualities 
 of this khaki-clad son of the Empire. His 
 intellectual interests were wide, and, although 
 backed up by a considerable bookish experi- 
 
 6 
 
ence, they always sought a practical end. He 
 was an Imperialist, but no jingo word escaped 
 him in my hearing. On the contrary, his 
 soldierly reticence was based in enthusiasm for 
 personal endeavour. " The Empire is kept 
 going by character," he said on one occasion, 
 " not by shouting." He had read much in modern 
 literature; liked Rudyard Kipling "where he 
 resembled Whitman," he said, and Whitman 
 " where he resembled Kipling." Then he 
 pulled himself up as though concerned at having 
 convicted himself of a thing he loathed, namely, 
 modern verbal cleverness. I reassured him, 
 knowing his robust tastes. That was the man. 
 He would talk, long and well, but the note was 
 sincere rather than brilliant, and generally 
 impersonal. I failed to get him to talk about 
 himself. His two immediate wishes were to 
 get to the Front, where his comrades were 
 fighting with undying heroism, and to have his 
 poems published. Both wishes have now been 
 gratified ; but Sergeant Brown lived only to 
 enjoy the first, and that only for a few brief 
 hours, for he was shot during his first day in 
 the trenches at St. Kloi, on February 3rd, 191 5. 
 Sergeant Frank S. Brown was born in Canada. 
 His father is the Rev. S. G. Brown, of Almonte, 
 Ontario. His interests combined a love of 
 outdoor life and intellectual pursuits. He was 
 a good horseman and first-class shot, as well as 
 a musician and a writer of considerable i)romise. 
 A part of his life was spent in the great West of 
 the Dominion. Just before the War he was an 
 enthusiastic worker in the Boy Scout movement, 
 having become a scoutmaster in the Quebec 
 district. Helpful and cheerful, he won many 
 
 7 
 
friends, and his acquaintanceship was valued 
 wherever he went. When war was declared, he 
 was one of the first to join the colours, and his 
 keenness as a soldier won him early promotion, 
 and, latterly, recommendation for a commission. 
 The following extract from a letter addressed 
 by Captain Talbot M. Papineau to the Rev. 
 S. G. Brown tells, in simple and reverent words, 
 both of the death of Sergeant Brown and the 
 esteem in which he was held : — 
 
 You were light in surmising that I crossed to France 
 with your son in the fust draft for our regiment. I had, 
 indeed, been closely associated with him from the 
 beginning. We went immediately into the firing-line, 
 and he was actually in the trench of which I was in 
 command when he was killed. As ycu know, he was an 
 expert shot, and he showed at once the most commend- 
 able enthusiasm in his work. Indeed, it was this which 
 caused his death. During the first day he fired nearly 
 eighty rounds at the enemy, probably as much as the 
 rest of the Company put together, and undoubtedly 
 attracted the attention of the German sharpshooters to 
 himself. About 3.30 that fame afternoon he was struck 
 in the head and died instantly and without pain. That 
 evening we reverently buried him behind the firing-line 
 — a short distance — with his feet to a large tree and his 
 head to the enemy. A wooden cross was erected to his 
 memoiy. Either myself or Corporal Smithers of my 
 Company could direct you to the exact spot. It lies 
 between what were afterwards known as trenches 23B 
 and 23C— in front of ".Shelley Farm"' — and within 
 sight of the famous "mound of death" of St. Eloi. 
 There are many of his comrades and many of his officers 
 who are buried within a short distance of him. 
 
 Had he lived I am sure he would have won signal 
 distinction. He was a conscientious and reliable soldier, 
 a skilful and courageous marksman. It is, indeed, one 
 of the sad things of this war that those who will have 
 done most and sacrificed most to bring it to a successful 
 conclusion will not be there to receive their earthly 
 reward nor share the glory of the achievement. 
 
It must be a comfort to you to know that your son 
 died bravely and honourably in the discharge of his 
 duties. 
 
 During his visit to London he put up at the 
 Veterans' Club in High Holborn, and there he 
 met and won the friendship of Major Arthur 
 Haggard, the founder of that excellent institu- 
 tion, who has kindly given me the following 
 impression of him : — 
 
 My recollections of Sergeant Brown are very pleasant, 
 lie visited this Club as an honorary member when the' 
 r. P. C.L.I, fnst came over from Canada, and were 
 stationed at Salisbury Plain, and again when he was on 
 furlough after he was discharged from hosjiital, where he 
 had been suffering from influenza, before he went to 
 join his regimen! at the Front. During his short visits to 
 the Club lie endeared himself to the members, and was 
 well known by them, as he was an excellent pianist and 
 sang very well (he had a really good baritone voice and 
 good style of singing), assisting two or thtee times at our 
 concerts. I saw him persnually just before he left to 
 rejoin at Tidworth for the Front, and had one letter from 
 him to say that he was on the point of starting for the 
 Front. It gave me a great shock when, only a few days 
 after, I saw his death announced in the lisi of casualties. 
 
 lie was certainly a young fellow of talent, as his 
 poems show. I think " The Convoy " especially fme, 
 and had he lived I cannot but think he would have 
 distinguished himself as a writer of poetry alone. 
 
 There is abundant evidence of Brown's 
 popularity among his comrades and sui)erior 
 officers. Captain Buller, who succeeded to the 
 command of the " Pats " on the death of Colonel 
 Farquhar, wrote me, in March last, that Sergeant 
 Brown was well known in his regiment, and " a 
 great loss to the battalion." And other appre- 
 ciations have reached me, orally and by letter, 
 from those who were his more immediate com- 
 rades, many of whom have expressed a desire 
 
to possess his poems in a more convenient form 
 thian that of chppings from the papers of 
 their original appearance. 
 
 Of the poems printed here some have 
 appeared in periodicals. "Letters" was first 
 published in The Ottawa Citizen, and copied 
 by many Canadian papers; "The Call" and 
 " The Convoy " appeared in T.F.'s Weekly of 
 March 6th in an article on Sergeant Brown's 
 work, entitled " The Poet of the Pats." As to 
 the literary merit of the poems, it is unnecessary 
 to say more than a few words. There is 
 nothing obscure or precious about the following 
 verses. They speak for themselves. Sincere, 
 strong, musical, they are the sort of poems 
 which appeal to the lettered and the unlettered 
 alike. Their fine and vigorous humanity and 
 staunch patriotism are set forth in simple words 
 and measures, often rising to poetic heights 
 which Brown did not aspire to reach, and they 
 reveal a mastery of phrase and imagery which 
 the professional man of letters can but admire 
 and envy according to his mood and nature. 
 It is idle to speculate as to what Frank Brown 
 might have done had his life been spared. 
 Here are his poems, good honest stuff, brave 
 in thought and patriotic in ideal, as befit a 
 soldier of the Empire. They have the spon- 
 taneity of folk-song, and should make a similar 
 appeal to that made by the simple ballads, 
 marching songs, and chanties of men who have 
 lived strenuously in the open air and mixed 
 freely and lovingly with their kind. 
 
 With the exception of a few minor and 
 clerical alterations, the poems are printed exactly 
 as handed to me by Sergeant Brown. The last 
 
 lo 
 
poem was called by the author " The Song of a 
 Man-at-Arms," and here I have ventured a 
 slight variation of title, which gives the poem 
 the traditional link with Omar Khayyam, whose 
 verse-form Frank Brown has adopted. The 
 arrangement of the poems is a further editorial 
 responsibility. The plan followed begins with 
 the Call to Arms, the setting forth of the 
 Contingent, military personalities, experiences 
 on active service, and reflections on war, life, 
 and death. 
 
 HuLDRooK Jackson. 
 
 1 I 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 I'ACiE 
 
 The Call .... 
 
 • ^3 
 
 "Fall In!" 
 
 • 17 
 
 The P.P.C.L.I. (Princess Pat's) 
 
 ~3 
 
 The Convoy 
 
 ■ 27 
 
 To Sam Hughes 
 
 • 31 
 
 The Veteran 
 
 • 37 
 
 The Grouch . . 
 
 • 43 
 
 " Letters "... 
 
 • 49 
 
 Opened bv the Censor 
 
 • 53 
 
 Fallen .... 
 
 • 59 
 
 Glory .... 
 
 • 63 
 
 Divine Right . . . . 
 
 . 69 
 
 The Rubaiyat of a Man-at-Arm 
 
 ^ • 73 
 
THE CALL. 
 
THE CALL. 
 
 The Flag's in danger ! needs there such a gry 
 
 To rouse the loyal blood of England's sons ? 
 Must Englishmen be urged to take up arms 
 
 And set their strength against marauding 
 Huns ? 
 We need no other strength but Might of Right ; 
 
 The courage of a cause both just and dear. 
 No conscript rolls need we to swell the ranks ; 
 
 The British soldier is a volunteer. 
 
 The Flag's in danger ! by our solemn word 
 
 A weaker nation's fate to us is tied ; 
 A sacred scrap of paper. Shall we let 
 
 The honour of the race be set aside? 
 Nay, that may never be. Tho' all unasked 
 
 Come sons of colonies. Their scattered lands 
 Give each its loyal strength. In common cause 
 
 United, proud, defiant, liritain stands. 
 
 15 
 
"FALL INI" 
 
g<gBce6&=^^£jg^^ 
 
 " FALL IN ! " 
 
 Oh ! ive are a t-agged, motley crezv, 
 
 Each with a tale to tell 
 Of a life of ease — a life of toil ; 
 
 A life lived out in hell. 
 Whatecr befall at the bugle cah 
 
 We II do our business ivell. 
 
 TnK bugle bawls a sharp " Fall In," 
 
 The section sergeants shout ; 
 A stampede on the markers, 
 
 And the company turns out. 
 And now you have us into line, 
 
 Just cast your eye within, 
 And read the tale of these soldiers hale 
 
 Who answered the cry " Fall In ! " 
 
 That guy with the coat split up the back. 
 
 And his forage cap aslant, 
 Is a minister's son — and a son of a gun. 
 
 You should hear the bounder rant 
 When the rations aren't quite up to scratch, 
 
 Or his rifle jams his thumb. 
 He slips a cog, and a language fog 
 
 Spurts up and begins to hum. 
 
 The other, with his moustache trimmed. 
 
 And puttees that need a shave. 
 Is a slum child from Toronto, 
 
 But a splendid chap is Dave. 
 His upper lip is his idol. 
 
 Boot dubbin is its pomade ; 
 He's tried to sup from a moustache cup — 
 
 But he knows his work with a spade. 
 
 19 c 2 
 
There's another chap down on the left 
 
 Who tacks M.A. to his name ; 
 He'll talk of art or the price of wheat, - 
 
 To him it's all the same. 
 His looks are insignificant. 
 
 In a battered pair of jeans, 
 No one would think that such a gink 
 
 Was a graduate of Queen's. 
 
 The sergeant of our section is 
 
 A most peculiar cuss ; 
 He wears a serge sans chevrons, — 
 
 No need of them with us. 
 His rifle's carefully curried. 
 
 He's a voice like Kingdom Come ; 
 He was a clod who carried a hod. 
 
 But can talk a drill book dumb. 
 
 The corporal with the greasy clothes, 
 
 And an eye of ebony black 
 (He got it in an argument 
 
 With the thief who stole his pack) ; 
 His office-pallored face is now 
 
 Red dyed with honest tan ; 
 A lawyer he that was to be 
 
 A city's coming man. 
 
 Down in the motor transport lines 
 
 You will find a goggled runt 
 Who drives an ammunition van 
 
 Thro' mud lakes at the front. 
 He always has a life-sized grouch ; 
 
 He grumbles at his fare ; 
 His van floor ain't a feather bed — 
 
 And he's a millionaire. 
 
That fellow in the ulster, 
 
 AVhich has seen most cruel use, 
 And a pair of squelching rubber boots 
 
 Which leak without excuse, 
 He used to be a Civil clerk, 
 
 Perched high upon a stool. 
 But dropped his tome to learn to comb 
 
 An ammunition mule. 
 
 Yon bull-dog face with the deep-cleft chin 
 
 Is owned by a miner old, 
 Who has roasted in California 
 
 And frozen in Klondike cold. 
 His thirst is a thing to conjure with ; 
 
 He shoots like the bolt of Fate ; 
 The dug-out roars with his husky snores 
 
 When he's back from patrolling late. 
 
 Oh ! we arc ajolly\ motley crew. 
 
 With many a tale to tell, 
 Of a life of love, a life of hate, 
 
 A life lived out in hell. 
 Whatever we've been, wipe out the sin,— 
 
 Well do 02ir Ini sines s well. 
 
THE P.P.C.L.r. (Princess Pat's). 
 
THE P.P.C.L.T. (Princess Pat's). 
 
 The trumpet sounded loud o'er hill and plain : 
 To Arms ! To Arms ! Our Empire is at war ! 
 
 Come, join your colours, on the land or main. 
 All Britons who have served the King before. 
 
 And in the mountain mine ; by prairie plow, 
 They answered to the trumpet's brazen voice : 
 
 They, who had served the Empire long enow 
 As soldiers by profession and from choice. 
 
 No conscripts, these, in whose unwilling hands 
 Weapons are thrust, to wage unwilling strife. 
 
 But — freemen all, who needed not commands 
 To volunteer their service, limb and life. 
 
 Thus rose a regiment, as 'neath a wand. 
 
 Of seasoned men, with medalled service too : 
 
 Soldiers from every corps throughout the land — 
 Britons beyond the seas ; tried men and true. 
 
 This is indeed a princely gift to give 
 To our Imperial Realm in crisis sore — 
 
 Proud in the nation of the sturdy men, 
 
 And prouder yet of him who raised the Corps. 
 
 Then go, ye able sons of Britain's soil, 
 To take your place, wherever it may be ; 
 
 God speed you in the glory — and the toil. 
 Princess Patricia's Canadian Infantry. 
 
 25 
 
THE CONVOY. 
 
THE CONVOY. 
 
 The sunny rose of autumn's smoky day 
 
 Had almost fled. The chill was in the air, 
 When issued forth from Gaspe's smiling bay 
 
 A grand Armada, 'neath a cruiser's care. 
 A great and grand flotilla, speeding forth 
 
 Beneath the oily pall of clinging smoke — 
 A gift to Motherland, of priceless worth — 
 
 Th' Atlantic's lazy swells to life awoke. 
 
 Thrice ten and two great modern Argosies, 
 
 That hurried to the Field the best of youth 
 To bear their country's colours o'er the seas, 
 
 And herald Canada to national growth. 
 Great sons of sires whose willing blood has given 
 
 To our New World the sterling of the Old ; 
 Most worthy volunteers are these, undriven 
 
 To take up arms ; freemen, but strong and 
 bold. 
 
 Beneath the watching escort's wakeful eyes 
 
 The fleet pulsed on. The ocean's lazy roll 
 Bore three long straggling lines, 'neath low'ring 
 skies, 
 Spread as a flock of geese cleave toward 
 their goal. 
 Thrice ten and two great, sullen merchantmen, 
 As, sullen in their cloaks of drab and black, 
 They freighted over thrice ten thousand souls. 
 How many of these same pay they bring 
 back ? 
 
 29 
 
The days roll by. The ocean slowly yields 
 ■ Its bosom to the squadron's steady pace, 
 Until the cliffs of England rise to greet 
 
 The scions of her colonizing race 
 Come home — to give their all. Come home- 
 to fight. 
 Come home— though born of that far Western 
 land, 
 Where Britain's shield is 'stablished for the 
 right, 
 They volunteered to lend an armed hand. 
 
 Oh 1 Plymouth, Cradle of the mighty Drake ; 
 
 The haven of his vessel's hopes and fears ; 
 Yet have you ever seen so fine a sight? 
 
 Or have you waked to such a crest of cheers 
 As roars aboard the transports, on whose decks 
 
 Are packed the khaki hosts ? Has e'er a day 
 Such wealth of loyal blood, such willing hands 
 
 Brought to your shores ? 
 
 All England answers, " Nay." 
 
TO SAM HUGHES. 
 
TO SAM HUGHES. 
 
 Say, General, just a minute, 
 
 While you listen to the lay 
 Of a rough Contingent soldier. 
 
 Pulling down one-ten a day." 
 If you spare me half a moment 
 
 I will not be over long, 
 But will lubricate my larynx 
 
 And unload a little song. 
 
 Busy Sam. 
 
 AVhat's all this talk of scandal. 
 
 And the howls of graft and shame ? 
 Ha! all who climb the ladder 
 
 Get a hand-out just the same. 
 So, pay but scant attention, 
 
 Keep your same old steady pace. 
 There is nothing smooth nor crooked 
 
 In your rugged soldier's face. 
 
 Honest Sam. 
 
 And if we crib a bit, ourselves. 
 
 About the clothes and pay. 
 We'll back you to a standstill ; 
 
 Count on us most any day. 
 Tho' you handed us the rough stuff 
 
 On the concentration camp. 
 You made us fit, 'spite blistered feet, 
 
 Sore backs, and soldier's cramp. 
 
 Trainer Sam. 
 
 * " One-ten." One dollar and ten cents, a private's pay 
 in the Canadian Service. 
 
Yoii sure are down upon the booze, 
 
 And on the water-cart 
 Each Tommy had to scramble 
 
 From the finish to the start. 
 We may hold different views on hooch, 
 
 But take it from a dub — 
 You trained us without whisky. 
 
 But you gave us decent grub. 
 
 Temp'rance Sam. 
 
 Yes, you lashed us up to rations. 
 
 And the quality of prog 
 ^Vas worth ten times its weight in beer, 
 
 Or other brands of grog. 
 We ain't no half-starved soldiers. 
 
 Our pay is mighty good. 
 You've incidentally pulled a stunt 
 
 No other person could. 
 
 ThDughtful Sam. 
 
 You took a hunk of wilderness 
 
 And made a camp of it. 
 Of forty thousand greenhorns. 
 
 Turned out thirty thousand fit 
 To slope the old Ross rifle, 
 
 March in fours, deploy, attack. 
 You kept us there and drilled us 
 
 Till we got the soldier's knack. 
 Soldier Sam. 
 
 So while on Active Service 
 
 We will do the best we can 
 To vindicate your views upon 
 
 The raw militiaman. 
 And if we pull a grand stand play 
 
 And make ourselves a name, 
 We'll tell them all that you're the guy 
 
 Who put us on the game. 
 
 Fighting Sam. 
 34 
 
And those of us who take the knock, 
 
 Remember — if you're there — 
 The wives and htlle kids are left 
 
 Entirely in your care. 
 It's up to you to see they get 
 
 A square and decent cheque 
 For the man whom you enlisted, 
 
 And who risked and lost his neck. 
 Ain't it, Sam ? 
 
 I've finished what I had to say, 
 
 Except a parting word, — • 
 Although you ain't a baronet, 
 
 Nor yet a husky lord. 
 We're proud of your promotion, 
 
 Which we guess was overdue. 
 For if any man deserved it 
 
 You can bet your hat 'twas you. 
 (General Sam. 
 
 'I'he following note is by Sergeant Brown : — 
 
 Major-General the Hon. Sam Hughes, born in 
 Tyrone County, Ontario, became Canadian Minister of 
 Militia and Defence when the )ireseni (jovernment of Sir 
 R. L. Horden came into power in 1912. He has un- 
 bounded faith in the citizen soldier, and has directed all 
 his energies towards the perfecting of the Canadian 
 -Militia ; his confidence being amply justified by the 
 splendid contingents which he has mobilised and prepared 
 for service in Europe. He is an ardent Temperance man, 
 and has done away with the camp canteen. Net the 
 Canadian soldier speaks of him aflectionately as " Sam '' 
 or "(General Sam,"' and enthusiastically acclaims him as 
 "Father of the Contingents." Major-Cleneral Hughes 
 accompanied the First ContingenI to England as Coloui 1, 
 and it was here that he received his promotion. 
 
 [Since the above note was written His Majesty has 
 invested the Hon. Samuel Hughes with the insignia of a 
 Knight Commander of the Hath (Civil Division). -II. J. | 
 
 ;^ I' 2 
 

 
 THE VETERAN. 
 
THE VETERAN. 
 
 Well, boy, you're going off to war. 
 
 I'd go again myself 
 If I was fit. Just reach my sword 
 
 From off that dusty sheU". 
 Ah, thanks ! The thrill it carries ! 
 
 This battered hilt to hold. 
 I'm mutilated, boy, but still 
 
 I'm far from being old. 
 
 Just think, a scant eight months ago 
 
 I l^eft here strong and tall. 
 And with my Briton brothers 
 
 Threw in my lot, my all. 
 Just eight short months, l)ut in that time 
 
 I've Hved a tragic life. 
 And seen my fill of hate and flame 
 
 And death in callous strife. 
 
 Right months ago I used to dream 
 
 Of glory's honoured crown. 
 Eight months, and in that hasting time 
 
 Aly idols tumbled down. 
 I dreamt the thrill of battle ; 
 
 The roaring charge ; the check ; — 
 I never thought that I'd return 
 
 A battered, useless wreck. 
 
 Oh, I was but a driftwood in 
 
 The backwash of a corps. 
 I've suffered and I've risked my life. — 
 
 That's what I 'listed for. 
 
 39 
 

 And were 1 hale and hearty 
 
 I'd do the same again, 
 And take my place among the ranks 
 
 Of Britain's fighting men. 
 
 What, youngster? Tell about my wounds? 
 
 There's nothing much to say. 
 The first was in the village — 
 
 We captured it that day — 
 1 got a bullet in the breast. 
 
 Unconsciously for hours 
 I lay just where I tumbled 
 
 Drenched thro' with chilling showers. 
 
 To get me to the ambulance 
 
 The bearers had to creep. 
 A doctor tended me who looked" 
 
 Half dead for want of sleep. 
 They'd run quite out of medicine ; 
 
 Few orderlies beside, 
 And those of us who wanted to 
 
 Might live — the others died. 
 
 I needed life so much, I guess 
 
 I fought the angel back. 
 It's funny how you hate to die 
 
 When lying on your back. 
 They patched me up eventually ; 
 
 Back to the lines I went, — - 
 Back to the freezing trench ; 'twas then 
 
 I knew what suft"'ring meant. 
 
 I'he cutting wind nipped to the bone. 
 
 The rifle froze the hand. 
 And all day long the shrapnel searched 
 
 The frost-encrusted land. 
 
 40 
 
'I'o face a madly charging foe 
 Demands a courage bold, 
 
 But more than that is needed to 
 Combat insistent cold. 
 
 One day we found a Frencli platoon 
 
 No wounds — no blood was shed ; 
 The poison-gas had done its work ; 
 
 The whole platoon was dead. 
 I remember cogitating 
 
 As among that group I stood, 
 " If hell is anything like war, 
 
 Thank God ! my life's been good. 
 
 But go, my Ijoy I Off to the front, 
 
 And let no tongue dissuade. 
 Go, for war's proficiency. 
 
 With rifle and with spade. 
 God speed you, boy ! I envy you, 
 
 As chained to a wooden peg, 
 I, crippled, sit with a broken life. 
 
 One hand, and half a leg. 
 
 41 
 
THE GROUCH. 
 
THE GROUCH. 
 
 " This world's made up of critters," 
 
 — Said a Private from the ranks— 
 " Of cantaloupes and (quitters 
 
 And most unlordly swanks. 
 Just take our Colour-Sergeant, 
 
 He's a bird when on the shout ; 
 I wish [ was the Colonel, — 
 
 I'd hang the blighter out. 
 
 " There ain't no use in talking," 
 
 • — He continued, warming up — 
 " That half-cut Corporal Smithers is 
 
 A dirty-dealing pup. 
 He took me up before the beak ; 
 
 You bet your life he did, 
 With evidence to hang me, sure 
 
 For bluff he takes the lid. 
 
 " The Captain hands me out a snort 
 
 With his oogey-boozley nose ; 
 And when he'd looked me up and down 
 
 And stared clean thro' my clo'es. 
 He up and says, ' What makes you think 
 
 You're living in a cup ? 
 What have you got to say ? But wail, 
 
 Before you start, shut up ! ' 
 
 " Now, say, that is some justice 
 
 For a Briton born to get. 
 The Captain and the Corporal 
 
 And the Sergeant have me set. 
 
 45 
 
They get me seven days C.B. 
 
 And seven more, if I 
 Refuse to get my hair cut 
 
 When I'm told to by-and-by. 
 
 " Great Cesar's white untarnished ghost ! 
 
 What's this they serve for beer ? 
 Hey ! Canteen Steward, what ' ye ' mean ? 
 
 We want no water here. 
 For water hasn't any use 
 
 Except to swab your face, 
 Put under bridges, or float ships. 
 
 Or sprinkle rf)und the place. 
 
 " There goes the call for dinner. 
 
 Gee ! ain't that bugler punk ! 
 His tongue is simply rotten, 
 
 Or else the bugle's drunk. 
 I wish I was a bugler, 
 
 I'd show them how to blow, 
 
 What ? Time up, Canteen Steward ? 
 
 AVell, suppose we'll have to go. 
 
 " Gee whiz I Call that a dinner? 
 
 You could drive a mule train thro' 
 Between the vegetables in 
 
 That dope you call a stew. 
 If I was cook, you bet your shirt 
 
 I'd fix you up a treat ; 
 But what's the use of grouching — 
 
 Great Scot I I've speared some meat I 
 
 " Well, anyhow, I'm finished ; 
 
 I guess I'll make the grade. 
 And dust my buttons off before 
 
 The bugle sounds parade. 
 
 46 
 
Ain't it the limit ! Same old street, 
 
 Parade the same old way. 
 Most every other afternoon 
 
 Should be a holiday. 
 
 " This world has awful tuHps '" — 
 
 P'inished Private from the ranks ^ 
 •' And ostriches, and canards. 
 
 And overbearing cranks. 
 You wait until I get a stripe, 
 
 I'll make myself a name. 
 But then, on second thoughts, I guess 
 
 I'll be about the same." 
 
 47 
 
" LETTERS." 
 
" LETTERS." 
 
 What is tlu aril, 
 
 The Bus;le call. 
 
 The call that has no betters : 
 
 The silver call. 
 
 That beats them all 1 
 
 The music call for " Letters." 
 
 You can take a silver trumpet 
 And sound the dread " Alarm." 
 T. A. will spring to action 
 \Vith his rifle 'neath his arm ; 
 But if you want to see him jum[) 
 Or run like a streak of hail, 
 Just take the same old bugle 
 And sound the call for " .Mail." 
 
 No one who ain't been there himself 
 
 Can tell just what it means 
 
 To have a live epistle 
 
 From your home tucked in your jeans. 
 
 A dripping sweet John Collins 
 
 To a thirst you wouldn't sell, 
 
 Ain't in it with the starving heart 
 
 That gets a word from Nell. 
 
 Or if the maiden's name is Kate, 
 
 Or Jean, or Marguerite, 
 
 A scented word of love-kin makes 
 
 A week's dull drudgery sweet. 
 
 Why, any mother's soldier son 
 
 Who hears that bugle cry 
 
 Just stops his heart and holds his breath 
 
 For fear he'll be passed by. 
 
wm^w- 
 
 His hand is all a-tremble. 
 His eyes stick out like pegs. 
 He goes all of a quiver 
 From the ague in his legs. 
 And if his name's not on the list, 
 He welts like a frozen bud 
 Until another mail call drags 
 Him plousing thro' the mud. 
 
 He ain't no correspondent, 
 
 And his answers may be few ; 
 
 His opportunities are slim 
 
 To write his lfi//j doo. 
 
 But when he does, it is beneath 
 
 A splutt'ring pine-knot taper 
 
 With the broken nib of an ink-starved pen 
 
 On a scrap of cartridge paper. 
 
 Now the moral is for folks at home : 
 
 Don't wait for him to write ; 
 
 And don't just say, " Dear Tom — must close, 
 
 I hope this finds you right." 
 
 A good, long, newsy letter 
 
 Is the best that you can yield 
 
 In the way of downright service 
 
 To your Tommy in the field. 
 
 What is the call, 
 
 The cheering call, 
 
 That every other betters 1 
 
 A silver call, 
 
 A longed-for call — 
 
 The iimsic call for " Letters." 
 
 52 
 
OPENED BY THE CENSOR. 
 
OPENED BY THE CENSOR. 
 
 THE FIRST. 
 
 Miss Mary Angelina Craven-Hall, 
 Park Avenue, 
 
 The Annex, 
 My Darling, — Montreal. 
 
 'Neath a fickle tallow light 
 A message of our love would 1 indite ; 
 The message of a starved and aching heart, 
 Sick of the conflict ; sick of slaughter's mart. 
 It is to thee I turn. In spirit haste 
 To help me bear this desolated waste. 
 Thou art my constant comrade, and I feel 
 Thy presence o'er my wearied senses steal. 
 I lit my comfort-pipe, and in the smoke 
 Behold ! I saw thy face. To me it spoke 
 Of Love and Home, and all that goes to make 
 Life's even way the rose's colour take. 
 Oh ! would that I might hold thee to my breast, 
 Or, safe beneath thy care, sink into rest ; 
 Or feel thy crushing lips in love's caress 
 Waft out the soldier's cares to nothingness. 
 Oh ! but again to see the gloried sun 
 Caught in thy tresses of the gold beams spun ; 
 Oh ! once again to take thy trusting hand 
 And lead you thro' a fairy castled land. 
 Forget not, in the city's monotone, 
 The chant of faith to thee I sing alone. 
 And ne'er forget the sacred word that binds 
 Our pulsing hearts, our intellects and minds. 
 May God in Heaven guard our treasure-trove. 
 Remember I am always thine. 
 
 With Love. 
 
 55 
 
THE SFXOND. 
 
 To Mrs. Hiram Billicaii, 
 Near Beulah, 
 
 Minnedosa, Man. 
 Dear Jane, — 
 
 I feel I cannot bleep ; 
 In slush and mud four miles deep, 
 I'll snatch a little time to ^vrite 
 A line or so to you to-night. 
 1 hope the kids aren't fallen sick. 
 And if they're bad just use the stick. 
 I showed you how to make them mind- 
 But then you never were my kind. 
 
 In handling kids you take the cake ! 
 I'm glad you're teaching May to bake. 
 I'm sending you a pound or two. 
 And with it here's what you must do : — 
 Lay in a stock of coal and wood, 
 And kindlery, and a pile of food. 
 Don't spend the rest, but take good care 
 To get the kids warm underwear. 
 About that darned old brindled cow : 
 If she is milking up to now. 
 Don't sell her until by-and-by ; 
 Get rid of her when she goes dry. 
 Tell John he's got to be a man, 
 And feed the pigs on swill and bran ; 
 And see he cleans the dirty pens, 
 Collects the eggs, and feeds the hens. 
 Be sure he doesn't start to smoke. 
 Or he'll be sick enough to croak. 
 If Harry's acting up the fool, 
 You'd better send him back to school. 
 Just keep an eye on Susie's lung, 
 And mind that Casey woman's tongue. 
 
 56' 
 
Don't fret or worry over me, 
 
 I am as right as I could be. 
 
 Now mind, I like to hear from home — 
 
 And say ! please send a fine-toothed comb. 
 
 I guess I'll have to say ta-ta. 
 
 Kiss precious baby for his pa. 
 
 1 hope he grows u]) good and strong 
 
 To be a soldier boy. 
 
 So long. 
 
 r.S. — You ought to sec the i 
 '["hey hand to us. 
 
 Your lovinu 
 
 Hub. 
 
 57 
 
FALLEN. 
 

 FALLEN. 
 
 Christmas (at arms) — tht shrapnel screams ; 
 Its laden death to earth in streams 
 
 They, wanton, fling. 
 Peace and Good Will — with awful stench 
 A shell explodes in shambled trench. 
 
 The where we cling. 
 
 Christmas (at arms) — the mantling snow 
 Reflects the burning town, aglow ; 
 
 None stay the flame. 
 Peace and (iood Will — no belfries ring, 
 No clam'ring chimes the tidings bring ; 
 
 We slay and maim. 
 
 Christmas (at arms) — this ghastly strife, 
 This ceaseless sacrifice of life, 
 
 Must be a sin. 
 Peace and Good Will — the sacred night 
 We desecrate ; we kill ; we fight 
 
 'Mid awful din. 
 
 (Christmas (at arms) — hark I rabid notes 
 Are roaring from the hostile throats ; 
 
 A bugle's wail. 
 Peace and Good Will — oh ! misplaced dreams 
 Amid this holocaust : the screams 
 
 Of leaden hail ! 
 
 Christmas (at arms) — is there a trust 
 To nerve this arm for bayonet thrust. 
 
 Or bullet's speed ? 
 Peace and Good Will— was ever Peace ? 
 W^ill e'er this panting struggle cease ? 
 
 Who dare gi\e heed? 
 
 6i 
 
Christmas (at arms)— the conflict wanes ; 
 Each dripping bayonet thrusts and strains ; 
 
 Back they are thrown. 
 Teace and Good Will — ah I breathe the Peace- 
 Tho' hate may rule till war shall cease — 
 
 I die alone. 
 
 Christmas (at arms) — oh ! bitter thought. 
 Peace and Cood Will — e'en this is nought 
 
 But irony 
 This agony ! . . . Hush ! . 
 Peace . . . Peace at last . . 
 
 Eternity. 
 
 . the angels . . . weep . . . 
 . ah ! . . . dreamless sleep. 
 
GLORY. 
 
GLORY. 
 
 We had a little set-back. 
 
 In the tricky shadow light 
 Between the day and the darkness 
 
 There had been a stubborn fight, 
 When the last rays of the sun 
 
 Picked out in deep-cut silhouette 
 A stranded Maxim gun. 
 
 Our Captain spotted it and turned : 
 
 His voice rang like a bell 
 Amid the hurricane of sound— 
 
 " Five volunteers for hell ! " 
 The nearest five howled, " Here, sir ! " 
 
 Above the awful din, 
 Then slipped out in the twilight 
 
 To bring that Maxim in. 
 
 So, while we hustled cartridge clips, 
 
 Or pumped our magazines. 
 We snatched the time to follow 
 
 Those five fire-eating fiends. 
 The first just turned and crumpled up- 
 
 His ghastly features set — 
 A German had him spotted when 
 
 He climbed the parapet. 
 
 The second kept on crawling, till 
 
 He met some flying lead 
 That ripped away his cap and left 
 
 A deep gash in his head ; 
 The third was going lucky, till 
 
 He topped the little rise. 
 Then turned to us and wilted — 
 
 On his face a fixed surprise. 
 
 65 V 
 
The others, scouting trouble, took 
 
 The open on the run ; 
 Unscathed they crossed the death zone, 
 
 And reached the precious gun ; 
 Then, taking it between them, turned 
 
 Back to our hiding place : 
 They'd covered half the distance, when 
 
 The fourth pitched on his face. 
 
 When the last man reached the trenches 
 
 He contained a pound of lead ; 
 He got the most when he pausedand stooped 
 
 To see if the fourth was dead. 
 Now this lad got a medal 
 
 To pin upon his breast. 
 And a whacking lot of glory, too ; 
 
 But what about the rest ? 
 
 One of the men came crawling back — 
 
 He was the first to fall — 
 But the surgeon could not save him : 
 
 He died in the hospital. 
 It was hours before the stretchers 
 
 Could leave the trench to tend 
 The wounded. In the meantime 
 
 The third had met his end. 
 
 The second man recovered, 
 
 But the price he paid was high — 
 Stone blind, a bullet in the lung, 
 
 One leg bobbed at the thigh. 
 And this was the price of glory, 
 
 This the just reward : 
 How many of these were heroes. 
 
 Think you, in the sight of the Lord ? 
 
 66 
 
1 
 
 
 s 
 
 ^ 
 
 m 
 
 %. 
 
 i 
 
 MB, 
 
 1 
 
 Just one got the cross for valour, 
 
 And one the sufferer's cross ; 
 Three lives went out in the twilight, 
 
 Yet none account their loss. 
 For every deed rewarded — 
 
 For every laurel crown — 
 Unknown, unsung, forgotten, 
 
 A hundred lives go down. 
 
 Then in the final reck'ning 
 
 Share with the ones unknown 
 The glory ; give not the living 
 
 The bread — to the dead a stone. 
 Jjut honour the sacred mem'ry 
 
 Of those who for honour tried — 
 Men of stupendous valour. 
 
 Unknown because they died. 
 
 6y 
 
 !•• 2 
 
DIVINE RIGHT. 
 
DIVINE RIGHT. 
 
 Two kings there were, and One of these, 
 
 With pompous grace benign, 
 Was blindly certained of his sway 
 
 Held by a Right Divine. 
 Who dared this monarch's slightest 'best 
 
 Or royal wish decline? 
 
 The Other, youthful, boasted not 
 
 Of sceptred gifts of God ; 
 Nor ruled by iron right of might, 
 
 But swayed with gentle rod 
 The hearts and minds of toilers grimed, 
 
 The tillers of the sod. 
 
 The One was worshipped for his strength, 
 
 His pomp, his regal mien. 
 His courtly fashions, or the height. 
 
 The grandeur of his reign. 
 And from his royal extorted praise 
 
 No subject dared refrain. 
 
 The Other, in his wisdom, gave 
 
 No blatant herald voice. 
 But through his gifted love of men 
 
 His nation made rejoice 
 To honour him — who honoured them — 
 
 The Ruler of their choice. 
 
 Then broke the horror —turmoiled day 
 
 Of baffled hatred born. 
 The One, beneath his armed heel. 
 
 In sullied ribbons torn, 
 Grinded the sacred pact to which 
 
 His Royal word was sworn. 
 
 71 
 
The Other, — cahn, hut undismayed, 
 
 Faced in a hoiJclcss strife 
 His country's death for honour's cause ; 
 
 His honour and Jiis hfe. 
 His land became a shambled list, 
 
 Wrecked by a rapine rife. 
 
 And for this awful ruin-war 
 The One must take the blame ; 
 
 Be his excuse ambition, or 
 Be it for nation-fame ; 
 
 His was the hand that loosed the horde 
 His be the shameless shame. 
 
 The Other? — none may censor him, 
 
 Ruled by a Hand above, — 
 Took up the gauge of cultured earth, 
 
 Fought for the Life of Love — 
 In his right hand the righteous sword ; 
 
 His left, the sacred dove. 
 
 In light of future years the name 
 Of One must slink to night. 
 
 The Other — Hail ! his royal fame ! 
 Blazoned in quenchless light. 
 
 Which of these rulers two, think you, 
 (ioverned by Sacred Right ? 
 
 72 
 
THK RU13AIYAT OF A 
 MAN-AT-ARMS. 
 
THE RUBAIYAT OF A 
 MAN-AT-ARMS. 
 
 Oh, come all ye who for the Nation toil : 
 Ye grimed smiths, ye tillers of the soil ; 
 
 Come, — would you hearken to a soldier's lay 
 Who ne'er laid hand to rifle nor to foil. 
 
 Away with me into the barrack square ; 
 The clean-combed barracks in its limewashed 
 glare ; 
 Away to Tommy's home in piping Peace ; 
 The den of fighting cubs, the lion's lair. 
 
 Here dwells the soldier in a grooved crease ; 
 Here rots the guard of enervating peace. 
 
 In seeming lazy uselessness he does 
 His thankless duty as the nation police. 
 
 His pleasures limited, his spirit dead, 
 Dressed in a branding coat of roaring red, 
 
 The object of tiie hare-brained jester's pun : 
 O'er him no i)raise is sung, no mass is said. 
 
 Lonely and forgotten he must lie, 
 Doing his duty most mechanically. 
 
 And fashioned women draw their kirtles back, 
 Lest he, polluting, touch them passing by. 
 
 \Vhat wonder, then, in lack of other cheer, 
 Without a home, with none to hold him dear, — 
 
 \\'hat wonder if, within a shell retired, 
 He drowns o'erweening loneliness in beer? 
 
 75 
 
What matter if, without another's claim, 
 He wastes his wages on a breathless game ; 
 
 Without a care of future, nor a doubt, 
 He burns his susbtance in a futile flame? 
 
 For man is only man, and clay is clay, 
 And barrack duties change not day by day. 
 
 Three themes hath he to talk of : women, food. 
 And what he's going to do with next week's pay. 
 
 Oh, come then from the world's commercial 
 churn, 
 
 To comradeship and yarning let us turn : 
 
 Come, l)low life's l)ubbrmg cares to nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 As blows the froth from off the lirimming urn. 
 
 Come, listen to the tales of other lands. 
 Where lap the lazy waves on silver sands ; 
 
 Where dusky maids and black attendants 
 crowd ; 
 Where 1 om is king, and deep respects commands. 
 
 (]ome, feel the luring stir within your blood 
 Of foreign service, far across the flood ; 
 
 Come, feel imagined heat of tropic sun, 
 And scent the laden oriental bud. 
 
 On sweet imagined feast he, starving, feeds ; 
 The thrilling tales of regimental deeds ; 
 
 The death by valour and the life of strife 
 Forever be the chief of Tommy's creeds. 
 
 Within the peaceful precincts of these walls. 
 Resounding with the haunting bugle calls, 
 
 Come, dream that in the dusk of future years 
 A deed of valour to your lot befalls. 
 76 
 
What soldier yet has felt no thrill of pride 
 Who holds his loved rifle to his side, 
 
 Or oils his bayonet with a tender care, 
 AV^ho in his arms lets confidence abide ? 
 
 Oh ! what envigored ecstasy in store 
 For he who never heard the throaty roar, 
 
 Or swept in keen exhilarating charge, 
 If only in the game of mimic war. 
 
 The throbbing, measured tread of marching feet; 
 The unison in which the pulses beat ; 
 The camaraderie of common bond, 
 ^^'henever and wherever soldiers meet. 
 
 But training and the drudgery of drill 
 Are but a school, and he a pupil ; till 
 
 The day shall break, and of war's heady cup 
 The soldier sups, and supping drinks his fill. 
 
 Then quaft'" with me a cup of liquor cold, 
 That, when the tale of battle is unrolled, 
 
 \Ve may as British sons acquit ourselves — 
 The honour of our regiment uphold. 
 
 Hark to the cry that booms across the scjuare I 
 Feel the electric tenseness of the air I 
 
 'Tis war ! Red war ! The altar flame of Mars 
 Leaps up and stains us with its ruddy glare. 
 
 Each eye aflame ; each hand atpake in haste; 
 The burnished steel as yet of virtue chaste. 
 How long ? How soon may this resounding 
 blade 
 The drunken cup of war-mad bloodshed taste ? 
 
 77 
 
Ah ! bustling warrior, but a moment yield 
 To prayer, as did the knight before his shield. 
 Then don the armour of your faith in arms, 
 Against the nerve-racked hardship of the field. 
 
 Make haste ! for lying eager on the tide 
 The transport strains the groaning wharf beside. 
 Make haste ! for, in the war zone, vandal 
 hands 
 Are wreaking devastation while ye bide. 
 
 Then breaks at last that awful morn of hell 
 Let loose — as grizzled veterans tell — 
 
 The soldier's baptism, and after that 
 The boom of guns his lullaby — his knell. 
 
 The scream of shrapnel, and the whining wail 
 Of bullets, drenching earth as with a hail ; 
 
 The hustling fragments as they, mocking, howl 
 'V\\eji/iis to a crumpled soldier's tale. 
 
 The ploughing shell that bursts with stifling 
 
 stench, 
 Or cuts huge chasms in the cluttered trench ; 
 The unit-clods that, with their gushing life. 
 The sodden mounds of sullen earth-clods drench. 
 
 The breathless rush ; the charge ; the tingling 
 
 thrill. 
 As bloodhounds leapt upon their prey to kill ; 
 
 The wine of slaughter, which intoxicates 
 The lip that touched the brim, nor drank its fill. 
 
 The flash of bayonet ; the blood-dripped knife ; 
 The maelstrom of this never-ending strife ; 
 
 The crowding souls a-hustling from the field ; 
 The groans and screams of mutilated life. 
 
 78 
 
A group of lauohing comrades — then a shell ; 
 A flash of belching smoke — a stifled yell ; 
 
 Then on the brain a picture sears, that shames 
 The torture chamber of the lowest hell. 
 
 A village sacked ; a town in raging flame — 
 The army-wasted trail tell — how they came. 
 
 And when this war-mad riot shall have ceased, 
 No earthly hand could make it look the same. 
 
 Ah I fill the cup, another yet to drown 
 The memory. But to the glitt'ring crown 
 Of every soldier's effort let us quaff, — 
 Victory, glory, honour, and renown. 
 
 We know that when the l)attle flag is furled, 
 And God's own peace is settled on the world. 
 
 Forgot will be the slaughter, gone the dream, 
 The hurricane of war in which we whirled. 
 
 Aye, seated once again in peaceful chair, 
 Forgotten be the torches' ruddy flare ; 
 
 Remembered only are the just rewards — 
 A cross for valour ; for the dead, a prayer. 
 
 Ah ! drink that day when Earth alone by laws 
 Is ruled — the consummation of our cause ; 
 
 When War is banished, and his gorgon face 
 The ready sword will, frightened, make to pause. 
 
 79 
 
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