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 IRb^mes of a 
 IReb Cross /llban 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT W. SERVICE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 'the spell of the YUKON," "tHE BALLADS 
 
 OF A cheechako," "Rhymes of 
 A Rolling Stone," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 BARSE & HOPKINS 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 
 by 
 
 BARSE & HOPKINS
 
 Annex 
 
 Zo tbe ^emoris or 
 
 MY BROTHER, 
 LIEUTExNANT ALBERT SERVICE 
 
 CANADIAN INFANTRY 
 
 KILLED IN ACTION, FRANCE 
 
 August, 1916.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FOREWOBD '..... 9 
 
 The Call ii 
 
 The Fool 13 
 
 The Volunteer 16 
 
 The Convalescent 19 
 
 The Man from Athabaska .... 21 
 
 The Red Retreat 27 
 
 The Haggis of Private Mc Phee ... 32 
 
 The Lark 41 
 
 The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins ... 43 
 
 The Song of Winter Weather ... 50 
 
 Tipperary Days 52 
 
 Fleurette 56 
 
 Funk 61 
 
 Our Hero 63 
 
 My Mate 65 
 
 Milking Time 69 
 
 Young Fellow My Lad y;^ 
 
 The Song of the Sandbags 76 
 
 On the Wire 80
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bill's Grave 84 
 
 Jean Desprez 88 
 
 Going Home 96 
 
 COCOTTE • • • 99 
 
 My Bay'nit 103 
 
 Carry On ! 105 
 
 Over the Parapet 108 
 
 The Ballad of Soulful Sam . . . .113 
 
 Only a Boche 119 
 
 Pilgrims 124 
 
 My Prisoner 126 
 
 Tri-Colour 130 
 
 A Pot of Tea 132 
 
 The Revelation 134 
 
 Grand-Pere 138 
 
 Son 140 
 
 The Black Dudeen 143 
 
 The Little Piou-Piou 147 
 
 Bill the Bomber 150 
 
 The Whistle of Sandy McGraw . . .157 
 
 The Stretcher-Bearer 164 
 
 Wounded 166 
 
 Faith i73 
 
 The Coward 174
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Missis Moriarty's Boy 178 
 
 My Foe 181 
 
 My Job 186 
 
 The Song of the Pacifist 189 
 
 The Twins 192 
 
 The Song of the Soldier-Born . . . 193 
 
 Afternoon Tea 197 
 
 The Mourners 204 
 
 L' Envoi 206
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes 
 
 In weary, zcoefid, waiting times; 
 
 In doleful hours of battle -din, 
 
 Ere yet they brought the zcounded in; 
 
 Through vigils of the fateful night, 
 
 In lousy barns by candle-light ; 
 
 In dug-outs, sagging and aflood, 
 
 On stretchers stiff and bleared zvith blood; 
 
 By ragged grove, by ruined road, 
 
 By hearths accurst where Love abode; 
 
 By broken altars, blackened shrines 
 
 I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes. 
 
 I've solaced me zvith scraps of song 
 The desolated zvays along: 
 Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sozvn, 
 And meadozi's reaped by death alone; 
 By blazing cross and splintered spire, 
 By headless Virgin in the mire; 
 By gardens gashed amid their bloom. 
 By gutted grave, by shattered tomb; 
 
 [9]
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 Beside the dying and the dead 
 
 Where rocket green and rocket red. 
 
 In trembling pools of poising light, 
 
 With ftozvers of flame festoon the night. 
 
 Ah me! by what dark ways of zvrong 
 
 I've cheered my heart with scraps of song. 
 
 So here's my sheaf of zvar-won verse, 
 And some is bad, and some is worse. 
 And if at times I curse a bit, 
 You needn't read that part of it; 
 For through it all like horror runs 
 The red resentment of the guns. 
 And you yourself zvould mutter when 
 You took the things that once were men, 
 And sped them through that zone of hate 
 To zvhere the dripping surgeons zcait; 
 And wonder too if in God's sight 
 War ever, ever can be right. 
 Yet may it not be, crime and war 
 But effort misdirected are? 
 And if there's good in zvar and crime 
 There may be in my bits of rhyme, 
 My songs from out the slaughter mill: 
 So take or leave them as you will. 
 
 [10]
 
 THE CALL 
 
 THE CALL 
 
 (France, August first, 191 4.) 
 
 Far and near, high and clear, 
 
 Hark to the call of War! 
 Over the gorse and the golden dells, 
 Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, 
 Praying and saying of wild farewells : 
 
 War! War! War! 
 
 High and low, all must go : 
 
 Hark to the shout of War ! 
 Leave to the women the harvest yield ; 
 Gird ye, men, for the sinister field; 
 A sabre instead of a scythe to wield: 
 
 War ! Red War ! 
 
 Rich and poor, lord and boor, 
 
 Hark to the blast of War ! 
 Tinker and tailor and millionaire. 
 Actor in triumph and priest in prayer, 
 Comrades now in the hell out there. 
 
 Sweep to the fire of War ! 
 
 [II]
 
 THE CALL 
 
 Prince and page, sot and sage, 
 
 Hark to the roar of War ! 
 Poet, professor and circus clown, 
 Chimney-sweeper and fop o' tlie town, 
 Into the pot and be melted down : 
 
 Into the pot of War! 
 
 Women all, hear the call. 
 
 The pitiless call of War! 
 Look your last on your dearest ones. 
 Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: 
 Swift they go to the ravenous guns. 
 
 The gluttonous guns of War. 
 
 Everywhere thrill the air 
 
 The maniac bells of War. 
 There will be little of sleeping to-night ; 
 There will be wailing and weeping to-night ; 
 Death's red sickle is reaping to-night : 
 
 War ! War ! War I 
 
 [12]
 
 THE FOOL 
 
 THE FOOL 
 
 '' But it isn't playing the game," he said, 
 
 And he slammed his books away ; 
 
 " The Latin and Greek I've got in my head 
 
 Will do for a duller day." 
 
 " Rubbish! " I cried; " The bugle's call 
 
 Isn't for lads from school." 
 
 D'ye think he'd Hsten? Oh not at all: 
 
 So I called him a fool, a fool. 
 
 Now there's his dog by his empty bed, 
 
 And the flute he used to play. 
 
 And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's 
 
 dead. 
 Somewhere in France, they say : 
 Dick with his rapture of song and sun, 
 Dick of the yellow hair, 
 Dicky whose life had but begun. 
 Carrion-cold out there. 
 
 Look at his prizes all in a row: 
 Surely a hint of fame. 
 [■3]
 
 THE FOOL 
 
 Now he's finished with, nothing to show : 
 
 Doesn't it seem a shame? 
 
 Look from the window ! All you see 
 
 Was to be his one day : 
 
 Forest and furrow, lawn and lea, 
 
 And he goes and chucks it away. 
 
 Chucks it away to die in the dark: 
 
 Somebody saw him fall, 
 
 Part of him mud, part of him blood, 
 
 The rest of him — not at all. 
 
 And yet I'll bet he was never afraid, 
 
 And he went as the best of 'em go; 
 
 For his hand was clenched on his broken 
 
 blade. 
 And his face was turned to the foe. 
 
 And I called him a fool . . . Oh, blind was 
 
 I! 
 And the cup of my grief's abrim. 
 Will Glory o' England ever die 
 So long as we've lads like him? 
 So long as we've fond and fearless fools, 
 Who, spurning fortune and fame. 
 
 [14]
 
 THE FOOL 
 
 Turn out with the rallying cry of their 
 
 schools, 
 Just bent on playing the game. 
 
 A fool ! Ah no ! He was more than wise. 
 
 His was the proudest part. 
 
 He died with the glory of faith in his eyes, 
 
 And the glory of love in his heart. 
 
 And though there's never a grave to tell, 
 
 Nor a cross to mark his fall, 
 
 Thank God ! we know that he " batted well " 
 
 In the last great Game of all. 
 
 [isl
 
 THE VOLUNTEER 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER 
 
 Sez I : My Country calls ? Well, let it call. 
 
 I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. 
 
 Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall, 
 
 'Ere's one they don't stampede into the ranks. 
 
 Them politicians with their greasy ways ; 
 
 Them empire-grabbers — fight for 'em ? No 
 fear! 
 
 I've seen this mess a-comin' from the days 
 
 Of Algyserious and Aggydear : 
 I've felt me passion rise and swell, 
 But . . . wot the 'ell. Bill ? Wot the 'ell ? 
 
 Sez I: My Country? Aline? I Hkes their 
 
 cheek. 
 Ale mud-bespattered by the cars they drive. 
 Wot makes my measly thirty bob a week. 
 And sweats red blood to keep meself alive! 
 Fight for the riglit to slave that they may 
 
 spend. 
 Them in their mansions, me 'ere in my slum ? 
 No, let 'em fight wot's something to defend: 
 [i6]
 
 THE VOLUNTEER 
 
 But me, I've nothin', — let the Kaiser come. 
 And so I cusses 'ard and well, 
 But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? 
 
 Sez I : If they would do the decent thing, 
 And shield the missis and the little 'uns, 
 Why, even / might shout " God save the 
 
 King," 
 And face the chances of them 'ungry guns. 
 But we've got three, another on the way ; 
 It's that wot makes me snarl and set me 
 
 jor: 
 The wife and nippers, wot of 'em I say, 
 If I gets knocked out in this blasted war? 
 
 Gets proper busted by a shell, 
 
 But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? 
 
 Ay, wot the 'ell's the use of all this talk? 
 To-day some boys in blue was passin' me, 
 And some of 'em they 'ad no legs to walk, 
 And some of 'em they 'ad no eyes to see. 
 And — well, I couldn't look 'em in the 
 
 face; 
 And so I'm goin', goin' to declare 
 
 [17]
 
 THE VOLUNTEER 
 
 I'm under forty-one and take me place 
 To face the music with the bunch out there. 
 
 A fool, you say ! Maybe you're right. 
 I'll 'ave no peace unless I fight. 
 I've ceased to think; I only know 
 I've gotta go, Bill, gotta go. 
 
 [i8]
 
 THE CONVALESCENT 
 
 THE CONVALESCENT 
 
 . . . So I walked among the willows very 
 
 quietly all night ; 
 There was no moon at all, at all ; no timid 
 
 star alight ; 
 There was no light at all, at all ; I wint from 
 
 tree to tree, 
 And I called him as his mother called, but 
 
 he nivver answered me. 
 
 Oh I called him all the night-time, as I 
 
 walked the wood alone ; 
 And I listened and I Hstened, but I nivver 
 
 heard a moan; 
 Then I found him at the dawnin', when the 
 
 sorry sky was red : 
 I was lookin' for the livin', but I only found 
 
 the dead. 
 Sure I knew that it was Shamus by the silver 
 
 cross he wore; 
 
 [19]
 
 THE CONVALESCENT 
 
 But the bugles they were calHn', and I heard 
 
 the cannon roar. 
 Oh I had no time to tarry, so I said a httle 
 
 prayer, 
 And I clasped his hands together, and I left 
 
 him lyin' there. 
 
 Now the birds are singin', singin', and I'm 
 
 home in Donegal, 
 And it's Springtime, and I'm thinkin' that 
 
 I only dreamed it all ; 
 I dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded 
 
 with its dead, 
 Where I knelt beside me brother when the 
 
 battle-dawn was red. 
 
 Where I prayed beside me brother ere I wint 
 
 to fight anew : 
 Such dreams as these are evil dreams ; I can't 
 
 believe it's true. 
 Where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard 
 
 to think of loss. . . . 
 But mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps — 
 
 a silver cross. 
 
 [20]
 
 THE MAN FROM ATHABASKA 
 
 THE MAN FROM ATHA- 
 BASKA 
 
 Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas 
 
 nothing but the thrumming 
 Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow 
 
 of a tree; 
 And she thought that I was fooling when 
 
 I said it was the drumming 
 Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling 
 
 unto me; 
 'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop 
 
 across the sea. 
 
 And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started 
 up in wonder, 
 
 For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas com- 
 ing from afar ; 
 
 Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas 
 only summer thunder, 
 
 [21]
 
 THE MAN FROM ATHABASKA 
 
 And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told 
 
 her it was War ; 
 'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty 
 
 armies are. 
 
 Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom 
 with russet sail a-flying, 
 
 And the word he said was " War '' again, 
 so what was I to do? 
 
 Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the 
 missis took to crying, 
 
 As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch 
 canoe : 
 
 Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an is- 
 land hid the view. 
 
 Says the factor : *' Mike, you're crazy ! 
 
 They have soldier men a-plenty. 
 You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're 
 
 sixty year or so." 
 " But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, '' since 
 
 I was one and twenty. 
 And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet 
 
 your whiskers — no ! " 
 
 [221
 
 THE MAN FROM ATHABASKA 
 
 So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's 
 eighteen months ago. 
 
 For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they 
 
 put me for a starter 
 In the trenches of the Argonne with the 
 
 Boche a step away ; 
 And the partner on my right hand was an 
 
 apache from Montmartre ; 
 On my left there was a millionaire from 
 
 Pittsburg, U. S. A. 
 (Poor fellow ! They collected him in bits the 
 
 other day.) 
 
 But Pm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch 
 
 of the lumbago ; 
 And they calls me Old ]\Iethoosalah, and 
 
 blagues me all the day. 
 Pm their exhibition sniper, and they work 
 
 me like a Dago, 
 And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a 
 
 mile away. 
 Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, 
 
 they say. 
 
 [23]
 
 THE MAN FROM ATHABASKA 
 
 And at night they gather round me, and I 
 
 tell them of my roaming 
 In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the 
 
 Frozen Sea; 
 Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and 
 
 the cariboo goes homing, 
 And they sit like little children, just as quiet 
 
 as can be : 
 Men of every crime and colour, how they 
 
 barken unto me! 
 
 And I tell them of the Furland, of the tump- 
 line and the paddle, 
 
 Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will 
 explore ; 
 
 And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack- 
 strap and the saddle, 
 
 And they fill their pipes in silence, and their 
 eyes beseech for more ; 
 
 While above the star-shells fizzle and the 
 high explosives roar. 
 
 [24]
 
 THE MAN FROM ATHABASKA 
 
 And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the 
 
 big bull moose are calling, 
 And forests still as sepulchres with never 
 
 trail or track; 
 And valleys packed with purple gloom, and 
 
 mountain peaks appalling, 
 And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at 
 
 Fond du Lac ; 
 And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish 
 
 that I was back. 
 
 So I brag of bear and beaver while the bat- 
 teries are roaring, 
 
 And the fellows on the firing steps are blaz- 
 ing at the foe ; 
 
 And I yam of fur and feather when the 
 marmites are a-soaring, 
 
 And they listen to my stories, seven poilus in 
 a row, 
 
 Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cig- 
 arettes aglow. 
 
 [25]
 
 THE MAN FROM ATHABASKA 
 
 And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike 
 
 for Athabaska; 
 And those seven greasy poilns they are crazy 
 
 to go too. 
 And I'll give the wife the " pickle-tub " I 
 
 promised, and I'll ask her 
 The price of mink and marten, and the rim 
 
 of cariboo, 
 And ril get my traps in order, and I'll start 
 
 to work anew. 
 
 For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen 
 
 a nation scattered. 
 And an army swung to slaughter, and a river 
 
 red with gore, 
 And a city all a-smoulder, and ... as if it 
 
 really mattered. 
 For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my 
 
 cabin's on the shore; 
 And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife 
 
 is singing gladly, 
 And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it 
 
 nevermore. 
 
 [26]
 
 THE RED RETREAT 
 
 THE RED RETREAT 
 
 Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from 
 
 Mons to Wipers 
 (I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised 
 
 and bleedin' feet) ; 
 Tramp, tramp, the dim road — we didn't 'ave 
 
 no pipers, 
 And bellies that tvas 'oiler was the drums zve 
 
 'ad to beat. 
 Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kid- 
 dies cryin' there. 
 The fell birds a-Uyin' there, the 'ouses all 
 
 aflame; 
 Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left 
 
 a-lyin' there, 
 Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, 
 
 it's a shame! 
 
 A-singin* " 'Oo's Yer Lady Friend ? " we 
 
 started out from 'Arver, 
 A-singin' till our f roats was dry — we didn't 
 
 care a 'ang ; 
 
 [27]
 
 THE RED RETREAT 
 
 The Frenchies 'ow they lined the way, and 
 
 slung us their palaver, 
 And all we knowed to arnser was the one 
 
 word *' vang " ; 
 They gave us booze and caporal, and cheerfed 
 
 for us like crazy, 
 And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us- as 
 
 we passed ; 
 And 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled 
 
 the Marcelaisey ! 
 Oh, Gawd ! Them was the 'appy days, the 
 
 days too good to last. 
 
 We started out for God Knows Where, we 
 
 started out a-roarin' ; 
 We 'ollered: "'Ere We Are Again," and 
 
 ^struth! but we was dry. 
 The dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow 
 
 the sweat was pourin' ; 
 The road was long, the sun was like a brazier 
 
 in the sky. 
 We wondered where the 'Uns was — we 
 
 wasn't long a-wonderin'. 
 For down a scrufif of 'ill-side they rushes 
 
 like a flood ; 
 
 [28]
 
 THE RED RETREAT 
 
 Then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries 
 a-thunderin', 
 
 And arms and legs went soarin' in the foun- 
 tain of their blood. 
 
 For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' 
 
 and a-singin' ; 
 We pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't 
 
 miss a shot. 
 But though we mowed 'em down like grass, 
 
 like grass was they a-springin'. 
 And all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles 
 
 was so 'ot. 
 We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed 
 
 the stuffin' out of 'em, 
 And then we fixed our bay'nts and we 
 
 spitted 'em like meat. 
 You should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal : 
 
 you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em. 
 And 'ow we cussed and wondered when the 
 
 word came : Retreat ! 
 
 Retreat! That was the 'ell of it. It fair 
 
 upset our 'abits, 
 A-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the 
 
 roads of France; 
 
 [29]
 
 THE RED RETREAT 
 
 A-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry 
 
 rabbits. 
 And knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 
 
 'ad 'alf a chance. 
 Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin' 
 
 and a-blunderin' ; 
 All day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on 
 
 our feet; 
 A-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit of rest, 
 
 and wonderin' 
 If sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest 
 
 to eat. 
 
 Ho yus, there isn't many left that started 
 
 out so cheerily; 
 There was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no 
 
 autmobeels. 
 Our tummies they was 'oiler, and our 'eads 
 
 was 'angin' wearily. 
 And if we stopped to light a fag the 'Uns 
 
 was on our 'eels. 
 That rotten road ! I can't forget the kids 
 
 and mothers flyin' there, 
 
 [30]
 
 THE RED RETREAT 
 
 The bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid 
 
 sights I sor ; 
 The stiffs that Hned the wayside, me own 
 
 pals a-lyin' there, 
 Their faces covered over wiv a Httle 'eap of 
 
 stror. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, the red road, the zcicked bul- 
 lets 'nmmin' 
 (I've panted out this ditty zcith me 'ot 'ard 
 
 breath). 
 Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches 
 
 all a-comin', 
 The lootin' and the shootin and the shrieks 
 
 o' death. 
 Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde 
 
 pursuin' there, 
 And 'oiv zve 'nrled it back again, them grim, 
 
 grey zvares; 
 Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the 
 
 ruin there, 
 The graves of me mateys there, the grim, 
 
 sour graves. 
 
 [31]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MC PHEE 
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE 
 MC PHEE 
 
 '' Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit 
 
 tae me? 
 It fair maks me hamesick," says Private Mc- 
 
 Phee. 
 " And whit did she send ye ? " says Private 
 
 McPhun, 
 As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun. 
 ** A haggis ! A haggis ! " says Private Mc- 
 
 Phee ; 
 *' The brawest big haggis I ever did see. 
 And think! it's the morn when fond mem- 
 ory turns 
 Tae haggis and whuskey — the Birthday o' 
 
 Burns. 
 We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the 
 
 rest 
 O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns Nicht wi' 
 
 the best." 
 
 ^' Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergant 
 McCole ; 
 
 [32]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MCPHEE 
 
 " I want you two men for the List'nin' Pa- 
 trol." 
 
 Then Private McPhee looked at Private Mc- 
 Phun: 
 
 " I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly 
 done." 
 
 Then Private McPhun looked at Private 
 McPhee ; 
 
 " I'm thinkin', auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor 
 spree." 
 
 But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie Mc- 
 Nair : 
 
 " Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae pre- 
 pare; 
 
 And as for the dram, if I search the camp 
 roun'. 
 
 We maun hae a drappie tae jist hand it doon. 
 
 Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it 
 be black, 
 
 O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get 
 back." 
 
 My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's 
 Land, 
 
 [33]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MC PHEE 
 
 And the deid they were rottin' on every hand. 
 
 And the rockets Hke corpse candles hauntit 
 the sky. 
 
 And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' 
 by. 
 
 There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' 
 shells. 
 
 And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death- 
 knells ; 
 
 But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole 
 
 Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Pa- 
 trol. 
 
 For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem 
 
 Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for 
 them. 
 
 Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer 
 
 Calamity's aften maist cruelly near. 
 
 And while the twa talked o' their puddin' di- 
 vine 
 
 The Boches below them were howkin' a mine. 
 
 And while the twa cracked o' the feast they 
 would hae, 
 
 The fuse it w^is burnin' and burnin' away. 
 
 [34]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MCPHEE 
 
 Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom, 
 A hell-leap o' flame . . . then ^he wheesht o' 
 the tomb. 
 
 " Haw, Jock ! Are ye hurtit? " says Private 
 McPhun. 
 
 " Ay, Geordie, they've got me ; Tm fearin' I'm 
 done. 
 
 It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the 
 knee ; 
 
 Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private 
 iMcPhee. 
 
 " Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private Mc- 
 Phun; 
 
 " And leave ye I canna, for though I micht 
 run, 
 
 It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd 
 see : 
 
 I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' 
 me." 
 
 Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid: 
 
 "If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for 
 deid. 
 
 And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel con- 
 tent 
 
 [35]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MCPHEE 
 
 If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither 
 
 sent." 
 "That's droll," says McPhun ; '' ye've jist 
 
 speakit ma mmd. 
 Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind; 
 And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot — 
 It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've 
 
 got." 
 For a while they were silent; then up once 
 
 again 
 Spoke Private AlcPhee, though he whussilt 
 
 wi' pain : 
 " And why should we miss it ? Between you 
 
 and me 
 We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for 
 
 tae see. 
 You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you 
 
 ma sicht, 
 And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the 
 
 nicht." 
 Oh, the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a 
 
 wee, 
 When Private McPhun gruppit Private Mc- 
 
 Phee. 
 
 [36]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MC PHEE 
 
 Oh the glaur it wis fyhn' and crieshin' the 
 
 grun ! 
 When Private McPhee guidit Private Mc- 
 
 Phun. 
 " Keep clear o' them corpses — they're may- 
 be no deid ! 
 Haud on! There's a big muckle crater 
 
 aheid. 
 Look oot ! There's a sap ; we'll be haein' a 
 
 coup. 
 A staur-shell ! For Godsake ! Doun, lad, 
 
 on yer daiip. 
 Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' 
 
 fine: 
 Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll 
 
 dine." 
 
 There wis death and destruction on every 
 
 hand; 
 There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's 
 
 Land. 
 And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and 
 
 a glare, 
 And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' 
 
 the air. 
 
 [371
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MC PHEE 
 
 Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun 
 When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept 
 
 roun'. 
 And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy 
 
 and stoot, 
 And McPhee on his back kept* a bonnie look- 
 
 oot. 
 " On, on, ma brave lad ! We're no faur f rae 
 
 the goal; 
 I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant AIc- 
 
 Cole." 
 
 But strength has its leemit, and Private 
 
 McPhun, 
 Wi' a sob and a curse fell his length on the 
 
 grun'. 
 Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his 
 
 ear: 
 "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from 
 
 here. 
 It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; 
 It's steamin' fer us, and we're — jist — aboot 
 
 — there." 
 Then Private McPhun answers : " Dommit, 
 
 auld chap ! 
 
 [38]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MCPHEE 
 
 For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I 
 
 drap." 
 And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a 
 
 strain, 
 And onward he staggers in passion and pain. 
 And the flare and the glare and the fury in- 
 crease, 
 Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a 
 
 lease. 
 And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, 
 And someone is shoutin' away on their right ; 
 And someone is runnin', and noo they can 
 
 hear 
 A sound like a prayer and a sound like a 
 
 cheer ; 
 And swift th/ough the crash and the flash 
 
 and the din. 
 The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in. 
 '' They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no 
 
 droll 
 Hoo they rave aboot haggis ? " says Sergeant 
 
 McCole. 
 When hirplin alang comes wee W^ullie ^Ic- 
 
 Xair, 
 
 [39]
 
 THE HAGGIS OF PRIVATE MC PHEE 
 
 y\nd they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae 
 
 sair. 
 And he says : " I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pet, 
 And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot ; 
 When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell, 
 And it — dropped on the haggis and dinged 
 
 it tae hell." 
 
 And oh but the lads were fair taken aback; 
 Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, 
 And up from the trenches like lions they 
 
 leapt. 
 And on through the nicht like a torrent they 
 
 swept. 
 On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before ! 
 On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar ! 
 And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, 
 And doon on the Boches like tigers they 
 
 sprang : 
 And there wisna' a man but had death in his 
 
 ee. 
 For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private Mc- 
 
 Phee. 
 
 [40]
 
 THE LARK 
 
 THE LARK 
 
 From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, 
 
 The guns have brayed without abate ; 
 
 And now the sick sun looks upon 
 
 The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate 
 
 As if it loathed to rise again. 
 
 How strange the hush ! Yet sudden, hark ! 
 
 From yon down-trodden gold of grain, 
 
 The leaping rapture of a lark. 
 
 A fusillade of melody. 
 
 That sprays us from yon trench of sky ; 
 
 A new amazing enemy 
 
 We cannot silence though we try; 
 
 A battery on radiant wings, 
 
 That from yon gap of golden fleece 
 
 Hurls at us hopes of such strange things 
 
 As joy and home and love and peace. 
 
 Pure heart of song! do you not know 
 That we are making earth a hell? 
 
 [41]
 
 THE LARK 
 
 Or is it that you try to show 
 Life still is joy and all is well? 
 Brave little wings ! Ah, not in vain 
 You beat into that bit of blue : 
 Lo ! we who pant in war's red rain 
 Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too. 
 
 [42]
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 'IGGINS 
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 
 TGGINS 
 
 j\Ie and Ed and a stretcher 
 
 Out on the nootral ground. 
 
 (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher 
 
 There's a 'undred smellin' around.) 
 
 Me and Eddie O'Brian, 
 
 Both of the R.A.M.C. 
 
 " It's a 'ell of a night 
 
 For a soul to take flight," 
 
 As Eddie remarks to me. 
 
 Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, 
 
 Thinkin' our job is done, 
 
 When sudden and clear, 
 
 Wot do we 'ear: 
 
 'Owl of a wounded 'Un. 
 
 " Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy ; 
 " Got to take all we can. 
 'E ma3^ be a Germ 
 
 [43]
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 'IGGINS 
 
 Wiv the 'cart of a worm, 
 
 But, blarst 'im ! ain't 'e a man ? " 
 
 So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin* 
 
 ('E'd always a medical knack), 
 
 When that wounded 'Un 
 
 'E rolls to 'is gun. 
 
 And 'e plugs me pal in the back. 
 
 Now what would you do, I arst you ? 
 
 There was me slaughtered mate. 
 
 There was that 'Un 
 
 (I'd cohered 'is gun), 
 
 A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. 
 
 Wot did I do ? 'Ere, whisper . . . 
 
 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead. 
 
 But when I got through, 
 
 Between me and you. 
 
 It was 'orrid and jaggy and red. 
 
 " 'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. 
 Thank Gord ! you ain't dead after all." 
 It's slow and it's sure and it's steady 
 (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small), 
 The rockets are shootin' and shinin', 
 
 [44]
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 'IGGINS 
 
 It's rainin' a perishin' flood, 
 
 The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', 
 
 And I'm up to me stern in the mud. 
 
 There's all kmds of 'owlin' and 'ootin' ; 
 
 It's black as a bucket of tar; 
 
 Oh I'm doin' my bit. 
 
 But I'm 'avin a fit. 
 
 And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar. 
 
 " Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. 
 
 Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." 
 
 Gord ! But I'm crocky already ; 
 
 My feet, 'ow they slither and slip ! 
 
 There goes the biff of a bullet. 
 
 The Boches have got us for fair. 
 
 Another one — JVhiit! 
 
 The son of a slut ! 
 
 'E managed to miss by a 'air. 
 
 'Ow ! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? 
 
 Gave it a dooce of a wrench. 
 
 Is it Eddy or me 
 
 Wot's a-bleedin' so free? 
 
 Crust ! but it's long to the trench. 
 
 I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, 
 
 [45]
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 'IGGINS 
 
 And Ed ain't a flapper by far; 
 I'm blamed if I understand 'ow 
 We've managed to get where we are. 
 But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. 
 " Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. 
 Old pal, it's all right ; 
 It's a 'ell of a fight, 
 But are we down-'earted ? No-o-o.'* 
 
 Now war is a funny thing, ain't it ? 
 
 It's the rummiest sort of a go. 
 
 For when it's most real. 
 
 It's then that you feel 
 
 You're a-watchin' a cinema show. 
 
 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. 
 
 Hey presto! It's somewheres in France, 
 
 And Pm 'ere in a pit 
 
 Where a coal-box 'as 'it. 
 
 And it's all like a giddy romance. 
 
 The ruddy quick-firers are spittin'. 
 
 The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate. 
 
 And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', 
 
 And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. 
 
 Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin* 
 
 [46]
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 'IGGINS 
 
 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, 
 
 And I'm sayin': ''Bert 'Iggins, you're 
 
 dreamin', 
 And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. 
 You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin' : 
 ' Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo ? ' 
 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood 
 In the rain and the mud, 
 Which is some'ow the right thing to do ; 
 Which is some'ow yer 'eary-eyed docty, 
 Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, 
 For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty. 
 And you've been and you've slaughtered a 
 
 man. 
 A feller wot punctured your partner ; 
 Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead. 
 And you still see 'is eyes 
 Starin' bang at the skies, 
 And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. 
 But you wish you was back in your diggin's 
 Asleep on your mouldy old stror. 
 Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, 
 But you ain't just enjoyin' the war." 
 
 [47]
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 'IGGINS 
 
 'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. 
 
 It's us for the bomb-belt again. 
 
 Except for the shrap 
 
 Which 'as 'it me a tap, 
 
 I'm feelin' as right as the rain. 
 
 It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', 
 
 It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, 
 
 But don't be oneasy, my pippin, 
 
 I'm goin' to pilot you in. 
 
 It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. 
 
 The bullets is buzzin' like bees. 
 
 Me shoulder's red-'ot, 
 
 And I'm bleedin' a lot, 
 
 And me legs is on'inged at the knees. 
 
 But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. 
 
 Just stick it, old sport, play the game. 
 
 I make 'em out clearer and clearer. 
 
 Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. 
 
 Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. 
 
 'Ang on there, lad ! Just one more try. 
 
 Did you say : Put you down ? Damn it, no, 
 
 sir 
 
 I'll carry you in if I die. 
 
 By cracky ! old feller, they've seen us. 
 
 They're sendin' out stretchers for two. 
 
 [48]
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF 'ERBERT 'IGGINS 
 
 Let's give 'em the hoorah between us 
 
 ('Anged lucky we arn't booked through). 
 
 My flipper is mashed to a jelly. 
 
 A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. 
 
 We've shed lots of gore 
 
 And we're leakin' some more, 
 
 But — wot a hoccasion it's been ? 
 
 Ho ! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. 
 
 They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. 
 
 Come ! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder, so. 
 
 They mustn't think we was down-'earted. 
 
 Old pal, we was never down-'earted. 
 
 If they arsts us if we was down-'earted 
 
 We'll 'owl in their fyces : * No-o-o.' " 
 
 [49]
 
 A SONG OF WINTER WEATHER 
 
 A SONG OF WINTER 
 WEATHER 
 
 It isn't the foe that we fear ; 
 
 It isn't the bullets that whine ; 
 
 It isn't the business career 
 
 Of a shell, or the bust of a mine ; 
 
 It isn't the snipers who seek 
 
 To nip our young hopes in the bud : 
 
 No, it isn't the guns, 
 
 And it isn't the Huns — 
 
 It's the mudj 
 
 mud, 
 
 mud. 
 
 It isn't the melee we mind. 
 That often is rather good fun. 
 It isn't the shrapnel we find 
 Obtrusive when rained by the ton ; 
 It isn't the bounce of the bombs 
 That gives us a positive pain : 
 It's the strafing we get 
 When the weather is wet, — 
 
 [50]
 
 A SONG OF WINTER WEATHER 
 
 It's the rain, 
 
 rain, 
 
 rain. 
 
 It isn't because we lack grit 
 
 We shrink from the horrors of war. 
 
 We don't mind the battle a bit ; 
 
 In fact that is what we are for ; 
 
 It isn't the rum- jars and things 
 
 Make us wish we were back in the fold : 
 
 It's the fingers that freeze 
 
 In the boreal breeze — 
 
 It's the cold. 
 
 cold, 
 
 cold. 
 
 Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, 
 
 The cold, the mud, and the rain ; 
 
 W^ith weather at zero it's hard for a hero 
 
 From language that's rude to refrain. 
 
 With porridgy muck to the knees, 
 
 With sky that's a-pouring a flood, 
 
 Sure the worst of our foes 
 
 Are the pains and the woes 
 
 Of the rain J 
 
 the cold, 
 
 and the mud. 
 [SI]
 
 TIPPERARY DAYS 
 
 TIPPERARY DAYS 
 
 Oh, weren^t they the fine boys ! You never 
 
 saw the beat of them, 
 Singing all together with their throats 
 
 bronze-bare ; 
 Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet 
 
 of them, 
 Swinging on to glory and the wrath out 
 
 there. 
 Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the 
 
 smiles of them, 
 On the road, the white road, all the after- 
 noon ; 
 Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles 
 
 and miles of them, 
 Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this 
 
 tune: 
 
 It's a long ivay to Tipperary, 
 It's a long way to go; 
 
 [52]
 
 TIPPERARY DAYS 
 
 It's a long way to Tipperary, 
 
 And the sweetest girl I knozv. 
 
 Good-bye, Piccadilly, 
 
 Farezvell, Leicester Square: 
 
 It's a long, long way to Tipperary, 
 
 But my heart's right there. 
 
 Come, Yvonne and Juliette ! Come, Mimi, 
 
 and cheer for them ! 
 Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass 
 
 you by. 
 Aren't they the lovely lads ! Haven't you a 
 
 tear for them 
 Going out so gallantly to dare and die? 
 What is it they're singing so? Some high 
 
 hymn of Motherland? 
 Some immortal chanson of their Faith and 
 
 King? 
 Marseillaise or Brabangon, anthem of that 
 
 other land, 
 Dears, let us remember it, that song they 
 
 sing : 
 
 [53] •
 
 TIPPERARY DAYS 
 
 '" Cest un chemin long ' to Tepararec, 
 Cest tin chemin long, c'cst vrai; 
 C'est tin chemin long ' to Tepararec,' 
 Et la belle fille qu'je counais; 
 Bon jo iir, Peekadeely ! 
 Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire! 
 Cest un chemin long ' to Tepararee,' 
 Mais mon coeur ' ees zaire! " 
 
 The gallant old " Contemptibles " ! There 
 
 isn't much remams of them, 
 So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in 
 
 their pride ; 
 For some are cold as clabber and the corby 
 
 picks the brains of them. 
 And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing 
 
 they had died. 
 And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, 
 
 glad sight of them, 
 Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black 
 
 and black ; 
 But, oh their glee and glory, and the great, 
 
 grim fight of them ! — 
 •[54]
 
 TIPPERARY DAYS 
 
 Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes 
 back: 
 
 It's a long way to Tipperary 
 
 {Which means '^'ome" anywhere) ; 
 
 Ifs a long way to Tipperary 
 
 (And the things zvot make you care). 
 
 Good-bye, Piccadilly, 
 
 {'Ow I 'opes my folks is zvell) ; 
 
 It's a long, long ivay to Tipperary — 
 
 CR! Ain't War just 'ell?) 
 
 [55]
 
 FLEURETTE 
 
 FLEURETTE 
 
 (The Wounded Canadian Speaks) 
 
 My leg? It's off at the knee. 
 
 Do I miss it? Well, some. You see 
 
 IVe had it since I was born; 
 
 And lately a devilish corn. 
 
 (I rather chuckle with glee 
 
 To think of how I've fooled that com.) 
 
 But I'll hobble around all right. 
 It isn't that, it's my face. 
 Oh I know I'm a hideous sights 
 Hardly a thing in place ; 
 Sort of gargoyle, you'd say; 
 Nurse won't give me a glass, 
 But I see the folks as they pass 
 Shudder and turn away ; 
 Turn away in distress . . . 
 Mirror enough, I guess. 
 
 I'm gay ! You bet I am gay ; 
 But I wasn't a while ago. 
 If you'd seen me even to-day, 
 [S6]
 
 FLEURETTE 
 
 The darndest picture of woe, 
 With this Cahban mug of mine, 
 So ravaged and raw and red, 
 Turned to the wall — in fine, 
 Wishing that I was dead. . . . 
 What has happened since then, 
 Since I lay with my face to the wall, 
 The most despairing of men? 
 Listen! I'll tell you all. 
 
 That poilu across the way, 
 
 With the shrapnel wound in his head, 
 
 Has a sister : she came to-day 
 
 To sit awhile by his bed. 
 
 All morning I heard him fret : 
 
 " Oh, when will she come, Fleurette ? " 
 
 Then sudden, a joyous cry; 
 
 The tripping of little feet; 
 
 The softest, tenderest sigh ; 
 
 A voice so fresh and sweet ; 
 
 Clear as a silver bell. 
 
 Fresh as the morning dews : 
 
 " Cest toi, c'est toi, Marcel! 
 
 Mon frcre, comnie je suis heureuse!'* 
 
 [57]
 
 FLEURETTE 
 
 So over the blanket's rim 
 
 I raised my terrible face, 
 
 And I saw — how I envied him ! 
 
 A girl of such delicate grace; 
 
 Sixteen, all laughter and love ; 
 
 As gay as a linnet, and yet 
 
 As tenderly sweet as a dove; 
 
 Half woman, half child — Fleurette. 
 
 Then I turned to the wall again. 
 (I was awfully blue, you see.) 
 And I thought with a bitter pain : 
 " Such visions' are not for me." 
 So there like a log I lay. 
 All hidden, I thought, from view, 
 When sudden I heard her say : 
 "Ah! Who is that malheiireux? " 
 Then briefly I heard him tell 
 (However he came to know) 
 How I'd smothered a bomb that fell 
 Into the trench, and so 
 None of my men were hit, 
 Though it busted me up a bit. 
 
 Well, I didn't quiver an eye, 
 
 [58]
 
 FLEURETTE 
 
 And he chattered and there she sat ; 
 And I fancied I heard her sigh — 
 Though I wouldn't just swear to that. 
 And maybe she wasn't so bright, 
 Though she talked in a merry strain, 
 And I closed my eyes ever so tight, 
 Yet I saw her ever so plain : 
 Her dear little tilted nose, 
 Her delicate dimpled chin, 
 Her mouth like a budding rose, 
 And the glistening pearls within; 
 Her eyes like the violet : 
 Such a rare little queen — Fleurette. 
 
 And at last when she rose to go, 
 
 The light was a little dim, 
 
 And I ventured to peep, and so 
 
 I saw her, graceful and slim, 
 
 And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh. 
 
 How I envied and envied him ! 
 
 So when she was gone I said 
 
 In rather a dreary voice 
 
 To him of the opposite bed: 
 
 "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! 
 
 But me, I'm a thing of dread. 
 
 [59]
 
 FLEURETTE 
 
 For me nevermore the bliss, 
 The thrill of a woman's kiss." 
 
 Then I stopped, for lo ! she was there, 
 And a great light shone in her eyes. 
 And me ! I could only stare, 
 I was taken so by surprise, 
 When gently she bent her head: 
 "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said. 
 
 Then she kissed my burning lips 
 With her mouth like a scented flower, 
 And I thrilled to the finger-tips, 
 And I hadn't even the power 
 To say : *' God bless you, dear ! " 
 And I felt such a precious tear 
 Fall on my withered cheek. 
 And darn it! I couldn't speak. 
 
 And so she went sadly away, 
 
 And I knew that my eyes were wet; 
 
 Ah, not to my dying day 
 
 Will I forget, forget ! 
 
 Can you wonder now I am gay? 
 
 God bless her, that little Fleurette! 
 
 [60]
 
 FUNK 
 
 FUNK 
 
 When your marrer bone seems 'oiler, 
 
 And you're glad you ain't no taller, 
 
 And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills ; 
 
 When your skin creeps like a pullet's, 
 
 And you're duckin' all the bullets, 
 
 And you're green as gorgonzola round the 
 
 gills ; 
 When your legs seem made of jelly, 
 And you're squeamish in the belly. 
 And you want to turn about and do a bunk: 
 For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! 
 Don't let your mateys know it — 
 You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk. 
 
 Of course there's no denyin' 
 That it ain't so easy tryin' 
 To grin and grip your rifle by the butt. 
 When the 'ole world rips a-sunder. 
 And you sees yer pal go under, 
 [6i]
 
 FUNK 
 
 As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the 
 
 nut; 
 I admit it's 'ard contrivin', 
 When you 'ears the shells arrivin^ 
 To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk ; 
 But, my lad, you've got to do it, 
 And your God will see you through it, 
 For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. 
 
 So stand up, son ; look gritty. 
 
 And just 'um a lively ditty. 
 
 And only be afraid to be afraid; 
 
 Just 'old yer rifle steady. 
 
 And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, 
 
 For that's the way good soldier-men is made. 
 
 And if you 'as to die. 
 
 As it sometimes 'appens, why. 
 
 Far better die a 'ero than a skunk, 
 
 A-doin' of yer bit. 
 
 And so — to 'ell with it, 
 
 There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. 
 
 [62]
 
 OUR HERO 
 
 OUR HERO 
 
 " Flowers, only flowers — bring me dainty 
 
 posies, 
 Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he 
 
 said; 
 So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, 
 Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. 
 Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly 
 
 caressing ; 
 Soft into his tired eyes came a little light ; 
 Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; 
 There amid the flowers waited he the night. 
 
 '' I would have you raise me ; I can see the 
 
 West then : 
 I would see the sun set once before I go." 
 So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, 
 Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow. 
 So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling. 
 Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame. 
 Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tum- 
 bling ; 
 So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came. 
 
 [63]
 
 OUR HERO 
 
 ** Open wide the window ; there's a lark 
 a-singing ; 
 
 There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky. 
 
 How it's wild with rapture, radiantly wing- 
 ing: 
 
 Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die. 
 
 I am horror-haunted from the hell they found 
 me; 
 
 I am battle-broken, all I want is rest. 
 
 Ah ! It's good to die so, blossoms all around 
 me. 
 
 And a kind lark singing in the golden West." 
 
 ** Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing 
 is wanting, 
 
 Just the happy laughter of a little child." 
 
 So we brought our dearest. Doris all-enchant- 
 ing; 
 
 Tenderly he kissed her ; radiant he smiled. 
 
 " In the golden peace-time you will tell the 
 story 
 
 How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths 
 were ours. . . . 
 
 God bless little children ! " So he passed to 
 glory. 
 
 So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs. 
 
 [64]
 
 MY MATE 
 
 MY MATE 
 
 I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy 
 pair of boots, 
 
 And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. 
 
 (Look out there, lad! That sniper — 'e's a 
 dysey when 'e shoots ; 
 
 'E'll be layin' off you out the same as Jim.) 
 
 Jim as lies there in the dug-out with 'is blan- 
 ket round 'is 'ead, 
 
 To keep 'is brains from mixin' wi' the mud ; 
 
 And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is over- 
 coat all red, 
 
 Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot — but it's 
 blood. 
 
 And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we 
 w^asn't pals. 
 
 'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me ; 
 
 And sometimes it was music-'alls, and some- 
 times it was gals, 
 
 [65]
 
 MY MATE 
 
 And even there we 'ad no disagree. 
 
 For when 'e copped Maria Jones, the one I 
 
 liked the best, 
 I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid ; 
 I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 
 
 'im make 'is nest, 
 I even stood god-farther to the kid. 
 
 So w^hen the war broke out, sez 'e : '' Well, 
 
 wot abaht it, Joe ? " 
 ''Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im. 
 'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad 
 
 to go 
 ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim). 
 Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most 
 
 of it's been 'ell. 
 But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved 
 
 our bread. 
 We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved 
 
 through Noove Chapelle, 
 And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 
 
 'ead. 
 
 [66]
 
 MY MATE 
 
 Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't 
 
 me was took? 
 I've only got meself, 'e stands for three. 
 I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'and- 
 
 some as a dook ; 
 'E always was a better man than me. 
 'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday ; 'e was 'appy 
 
 as a lark, 
 And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; 
 And 'e struck a match to show me, as we 
 
 stood there in the dark, 
 When . . . that blecdin' bullet got 'im on 
 
 the lid. 
 
 'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e *adn't 
 time to die. 
 
 'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. 
 
 Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a- 
 streamin' in the sky, 
 
 And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. 
 
 And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 
 'is 'ead, 
 
 And I'm sick, and blamed if I can under- 
 stand : 
 
 [67]
 
 MY MATE 
 
 The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and sip! 
 
 like that — 'e's dead, 
 Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and. 
 
 There's some as fights for freedom and 
 
 there's some as fights for fun. 
 But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate. 
 You can blame the war and blast it, but I 
 
 'opes it won't be done 
 Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me 
 
 mate. 
 It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim ; 
 Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid. 
 With 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the 
 
 place of 'im. 
 To sorter be a farther to 'is kid. 
 
 [68]
 
 MILKING TIME 
 
 MILKING TIME 
 
 There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep 
 
 green lane ; 
 There's old Martin jogging homeward on his 
 
 worn old wain; 
 There are cheery petals falling, and a cuckoo 
 
 calling, calling, 
 And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . 
 
 but it's all pain, pain. 
 For you see I am not really there at all, not 
 
 at all ; 
 For you see I'm in the trenches where the 
 
 crump-crumps fall ; 
 And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's 
 
 only blessed dreaming 
 That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint 
 
 Pol. 
 
 Oh, Fve thought of it so often since Fve 
 
 come down here ; 
 And I never dreamt that any place could be 
 
 so dear; 
 
 [69]
 
 MILKING TIME 
 
 The silvered whinstoiie houses, and the rosy 
 
 men in blouses, 
 And the kindly, white-capped women with 
 
 their eyes spring-clear. 
 And mother's sitting knitting where her roses 
 
 climb. 
 And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft 
 
 chime, 
 And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the 
 
 light's a golden blessing, 
 And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's 
 
 milking time. 
 
 Oh, it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her 
 
 broidered gown ; 
 And she draws the pasture pickets and the 
 
 cows come down; 
 And their feet are powdered yellow, and 
 
 their voices honey-mellow, 
 And they bring a scent of clover, and their 
 
 eyes are brown. 
 And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes 
 
 are blue; 
 
 [70]
 
 MILKING TIME 
 
 And her lips are made for laughter, and her 
 
 white teeth too ; 
 And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple 
 
 mocking merry 
 Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. 
 
 So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs 
 
 at me; 
 And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac 
 
 tree; 
 And a golden light is welling, and a golden 
 
 peace is dwelling, 
 And a thousand birds are telling how it's 
 
 good to be. 
 And what are pouting lips for if they can't 
 
 be kissed? 
 And I've filled her arms with blossom so she 
 
 can't resist ; 
 And the cows are sadly straying, and her 
 
 mother must be saying 
 That Yvonne is long delaying . . . God! 
 
 Hozv close that missed! 
 
 [71]
 
 MILKING TIME 
 
 A nice polite reminer that the Boche are 
 
 nigh; 
 That we're here to fight hke devils, and if 
 
 need-be die; 
 That from kissing pretty wenches to the 
 
 frantic firing-benches 
 Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far 
 
 cry. 
 Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and 
 
 grime ; 
 And once again I'm hearing of them church- 
 bells chime ; 
 And how I wonder whether in the golden 
 
 summer weather 
 We will fetch the cows together when it's 
 
 milking time. . . . 
 
 English voice, months later: — 
 " Ow Bill! A rottin' Frenchy, Whew! 'E 
 
 ain't 'arf prime." . . . 
 
 [72]
 
 YOUNG FELLOW MY LAD 
 
 YOUNG FELLOW MY LAD 
 
 " Where are you going, Young Fellow My 
 
 Lad, 
 On this glittering morn of May? " 
 *' I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; 
 They're looking for men, they say." 
 " But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My 
 
 Lad; 
 You aren't obliged to go." 
 " I'm seventeen and a quarter. Dad, 
 And ever so strong, you know." 
 
 :>: H: ^ ^ >|( ^ 
 
 *' So you're ofif to France, Young Fellow My 
 
 Lad, 
 And you're looking so fit and bright." 
 " I'm terribly sorry to leave you. Dad, 
 But I feel that I'm doing right." 
 " God bless you and keep you. Young Fellow 
 
 My Lad, 
 You're all of my life, you know." 
 " Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, 
 And I'm awfully proud to go." 
 
 :ic ^ jj; * * * 
 
 [73]
 
 YOUNG FELLOW MY LAD 
 
 '' Why don't you write, Young Fellow My 
 
 Lad? 
 I watch for the post each day ; 
 And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, 
 And it's months since you went away. 
 And I've had the fire in the parlour lit. 
 And I'm keeping it burning bright 
 Till my boy comes home ; and here I sit 
 Into the quiet night." 
 
 '* What is the matter, Young Fellow My 
 
 Lad? 
 No letter again to-day. 
 Why did the postman look so sad. 
 And sigh as he turned away ? 
 I hear them tell that we've gained new 
 
 ground. 
 But a terrible price we've paid. 
 God grant, my boy, that you're safe and 
 
 sound ; 
 But oh I'm afraid, afraid." 
 
 [74].
 
 YOUNG FELLOW MY LAD 
 
 ** They've told me the truth, Young Fellow 
 
 My Lad : 
 You'll never come back again. 
 (0 God! the dreams and the dreams I've had, 
 And the hopes I've nursed in vain!) 
 For you passed in the night, Young Fellow 
 
 My Lad, 
 And you proved in the cruel test 
 Of the screaming shell and the battle hell 
 That my boy was one of the best." 
 
 " So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My 
 
 Lad, 
 In the gleam of the evening star, 
 In the wood note wild and the laugh of the 
 
 child. 
 In all sweet things that are. 
 And you'll never die, my wonderful boy, 
 While life is noble and true ; 
 For all our beauty and hope and joy 
 We will owe to our lads like you." 
 
 [75]
 
 A SONG OF THE SANDBAGS 
 
 A SONG OF THE SANDBAGS 
 
 No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic 
 
 tosh 
 (The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death- 
 
 or-glory cuss). 
 And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I 
 
 doesn't 'ate the Boche, 
 I guess they're mostly decent, just the same 
 
 as most of us. 
 I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as 
 
 much as you or me, 
 And just the same as you or me they'd rather 
 
 shake than fight; 
 And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berhn- 
 
 on-the-Spree, 
 We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead 
 
 sure that we was right. 
 
 A-standin' up to the sandbags 
 It's funny the thoughts wot come;
 
 A SONG OF THE SANDBAGS 
 
 Starin' into the darkness, 
 
 'Earin' the bullets 'um ; 
 
 (Zing! Zip Ping! Rip! 
 
 'Ark 'ozv the bullets 'um!) 
 
 A-leanin' against the sandbags 
 
 Wiv me rifle under me ear, 
 
 Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go 
 
 Than I used to 'ave in a year. 
 
 I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' 
 
 like me 
 Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the 
 
 slaughter's for? 
 'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but 
 
 this we both agree, 
 If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't 
 
 be no war. 
 If them as lies in feather beds while we kips 
 
 in the mud; 
 If them as makes their fortoons while we 
 
 fights for 'em like 'ell ; 
 If them as slings their pots of ink just 'ad 
 
 to sling their blood: 
 By Crust ! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another 
 
 tale to tell. 
 
 [77^
 
 A SONG OF THE SANDBAGS 
 
 Shiverin' up to the sandbags, 
 
 With a hicicle 'stead of a spine, 
 
 Don't it seem funny the things you think 
 
 'Ere in the firin' hne: 
 
 (Wheel WJiiit! Ziz! Zut! 
 
 Lord! 'Ozv the bullets zvhine!) 
 
 Hunkerin' down when a star-shell 
 
 Cracks in a sputter of light, 
 
 You can jaw to your soul by the sandbags 
 
 'Most any old time o' night. 
 
 They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' 
 
 of our trade, 
 Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair 
 
 film-flammed ; 
 But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody 
 
 war is made. 
 Then wot I say is : Empire and 'igh destiny 
 
 be damned ! 
 There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor 
 
 blokes like us to fight: 
 That's self-defence, fer 'earth and 'ome, and 
 
 them that bears our name; 
 
 [78]
 
 A SONG OF THE SANDBAGS 
 
 And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 
 
 'ere to-night. . . . 
 But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' 
 
 of the same. 
 
 Starin' over the sandbags, 
 
 Sick of the 'ole damn thing ; 
 
 Firin' to keep meself awake, 
 
 'Earin' the bullets sing. 
 
 (Hiss! Tzvang! Tsing! Pang! 
 
 Saucy the bullets sing.) 
 
 Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags 
 
 Of a day when war will cease. 
 
 When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me 
 
 Will clink our mugs in fraternity, 
 
 And the Brotherhood of Labour will be 
 
 The Brotherhood of Peace. 
 
 [79]
 
 ON THE WIRE 
 
 ON THE WIRE 
 
 Oh God, take the sun from the sky ! 
 It's burning me, scorching me up. 
 God, can't You hear my cry? 
 Water! A poor, little cup! 
 It's laughing, the cursed sun! 
 See how it swells and swells 
 Fierce as a hundred hells! 
 God, will it never have done? 
 It's searing the flesh on my bones; 
 It's beating with hammers red 
 My eyeballs into my head ; 
 It's parching my very moans. 
 See! It's the size of the sky, 
 And the sky is a torrent of fire, 
 Foaming on me as I lie 
 Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . 
 
 Of the thousands that wheeze and hum 
 Heedlessly over my head. 
 Why can't a bullet come. 
 Pierce to my brain instead ; 
 Blacken forever my brain, 
 [Sol
 
 ON THE WIRE 
 
 Finish forever my pain? 
 
 Here in the helhsh glare 
 
 Why must I suffer so? 
 
 Is it God doesn't care? 
 
 Is it God doesn't know? 
 
 Oh, to be killed outright, 
 
 Clean in the clash of the fight! 
 
 That is a golden death, 
 
 That is a boon ; but this . . . 
 
 Drawing an anguished breath 
 
 Under a hot abyss, 
 
 Under a stooping sky 
 
 Of seething, sulphurous fire, 
 
 Scorching me up as I lie 
 
 Here on the wire . . . the wire. 
 
 Hasten, O God, Thy night ! 
 Hide from my eyes the sight 
 Of the body I stare and see 
 Shattered so hideously. 
 I can't beheve that it's mine. 
 My body was white and sweet, 
 Flawless and fair and fine, 
 Shapeless from head to feet; 
 Oh no, I can never be 
 [8i]
 
 ON THE WIRE 
 
 The thing of horror I see 
 
 Under the rifle fire, 
 
 Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. 
 
 Of night and of death I dream; 
 Night that will bring me peace, 
 Coolness and starry gleam, 
 Stillness and death's release: 
 Ages and ages have passed — 
 Lo ! it is night at last. 
 Night ! but the guns roar out. 
 Night ! but the hosts attack. 
 Red and yellow and black 
 Geysers of doom upspout. 
 Silver and green and red 
 Star-shells hover and spread. 
 Yonder ofif to the right 
 Fiercely kindles the fight; 
 Roaring near and more near. 
 Thundering now in my ear; 
 Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark! 
 Someone moans in the dark. 
 I hear, but I cannot see, 
 I hear as the rest retire, 
 Someone is caught like me, 
 Caught on the wire . . . the wire. 
 
 [82]
 
 ON THE WIRE 
 
 Again the shuddering dawn, 
 Weird and wicked and wan ; 
 Again, and I've not yet gone. 
 The man whom I heard is dead. 
 Now I can understand : 
 A bullet hole in his head, 
 A pistol gripped in his hand. 
 Well, he knew what to do, — 
 Yes, and now I know too. . . . 
 
 Hark the resentful guns ! 
 Oh, how thankful am I 
 To think my beloved ones 
 Will never know how I die ! 
 I've suffered more than my share 
 I'm shattered beyond repair; 
 I've fought like a man the fight, 
 And now I demand the right 
 (God! how his fingers cling!) 
 To do without shame this thing. 
 Good ! there's a bullet still ; 
 Now I'm ready to fire ; 
 Blame me, God, if You will. 
 Here on the wire . . . the wire. . 
 
 [831
 
 BILL'S GRAVE 
 
 BILL'S GRAVE 
 
 I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay 
 
 on the grave of Bill; 
 I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim 
 
 wouldn't understand ; 
 'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it 
 
 made 'im ill, 
 To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big 
 
 bookay in me 'and. 
 
 For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill 
 
 was one o' the best ; 
 We 'listed and learned together to larf at the 
 
 wust wot comes; 
 Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 
 
 'is departure West, 
 So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 
 
 'is chums. 
 
 [84]
 
 BILL'S GRAVE 
 
 And they took me to where 'e was planted, 
 
 a sort of a measly mound, 
 And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' 
 
 so soft and queer, 
 If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, 
 
 and sort of arranged them round 
 Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and 
 
 that's the reason I'm here. 
 
 But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave 
 
 Jim to know. 
 'E'd call me a slobberin' Sissy, and larf till 'is 
 
 sides was sore ; 
 I'd 'ave larfed at meself meself too, it isn't 
 
 so long ago ; 
 But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a 
 
 taste of war. 
 
 It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is 
 
 pals is worth 
 (Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps 
 
 some fairy 'as lit) ; 
 I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now 
 
 Jim's o' the salt o' the earth; 
 [851
 
 BILL'S GRAVE 
 
 But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 
 'e ain't sentimental a bit. 
 
 I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike 
 
 among the corn. 
 Won't Bill be glad! We was alius thicker 
 
 'n thieves, us three. 
 Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? Jim! 
 
 And as sure as I'm born 
 'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' 
 
 flowers like me. 
 
 Quick ! Drop me posy be'ind me. I 
 
 watches 'im for a while, 
 Then I says : " Wot 'o, there. Chummy ! 
 
 Wot price the little bookay ? " 
 And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e 
 
 says with a sheepish smile : 
 " She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot 
 
 keeps the estaminay." 
 
 So 'e goes away in a 'urray, and I wishes 'im 
 
 best o' luck, 
 And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, 
 
 and the light's gettin' sorto dim, 
 [86]
 
 BILL'S GRAVE 
 
 When I makes me way to the boneyard, and 
 ... I stares Hke a man wot's stuck, 
 
 For wot do I see? Bill's grave-mound 
 strezi'n with the flozvers of Jim. 
 
 Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tacti- 
 cal lad; 
 
 And Jim parley-voos to the widder : " Trez 
 beans, lamoor ; compree ? " 
 
 Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew ; but 
 say ! won't Bill be glad 
 
 When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and 
 sees the blossoms of Jim and mc ! 
 
 [87]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring 
 
 to War's romance, 
 Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of 
 
 France ; 
 A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, 
 
 when trial came, 
 Could feel within his soul upleap and soar 
 
 the sacred flame; 
 Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as 
 
 only heroes may : 
 Oh, barken ! Let me try to tell the tale of 
 
 Jean Desprez. 
 
 With fire and sword the Teuton horde was 
 
 ravaging the land, 
 And there was darkness and despair, and 
 
 death on every hand; 
 Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's 
 
 black abyss; 
 
 [88]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and lit- 
 tle did they miss. 
 
 And on they came with fear and flame, to 
 burn and loot and slay, 
 
 Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the 
 home of Jean Desprez. 
 
 *' Rout out the village, one and all ! " the 
 
 Uhlan Captain said. 
 '' Behold ! Some hand has fired a shot. My 
 
 trumpeter is dead. 
 Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; 
 
 now shall they rue the day. 
 For by this sacred German slain, ten of these 
 
 dogs shall pay." 
 They drove the cowering peasants forth, 
 
 women and babes and men, 
 And from the last, with many a jeer, the 
 
 Captain chose he ten ; 
 Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil ; they 
 
 stood, they knew not why. 
 Against the grey wall of the church, hearing 
 
 their children cry; 
 
 [89]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with 
 
 faces dazed they stood. 
 A moment only. . . . Ready! Fire! They 
 
 weltered in their blood. 
 
 But there was one who gazed unseen, who 
 
 heard the frenzied cries, 
 Who saw these men in sabots fall before 
 
 their children's eyes; 
 A zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing 
 
 death was nigh, 
 He laughed with joy : '* Ah ! here is where 
 
 I settle ere I die." 
 He clutched his rifle once again, and long 
 
 he aimed and well. . . . 
 A shot ! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan 
 
 Captain fell. 
 
 They dragged the wounded zouave out ; their 
 rage was like a flame. 
 
 With bayonets they pinned him down, until 
 their Major came. 
 
 A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and ar- 
 rogant of eve; 
 
 [90]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 He stared to see with shattered skull his 
 
 favourite Captain lie. 
 " Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign 
 
 swine," he cried ; 
 *' Go nail him to the big church door : he shall 
 
 be crucified." 
 
 With bayonets through hands and feet they 
 
 nailed the zouave there. 
 And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror 
 
 in his stare; 
 " Water ! A single drop ! " he moaned ; but 
 
 how they jeered at him. 
 And mocked him with an empty cup, and 
 
 saw his sight grow dim ; 
 And as in agony of death w^ith blood his lips 
 
 were wet, 
 The Prussian ]\Iajor gaily laughed, and lit a 
 
 cigarette. 
 
 But mid the white-faced villagers who 
 
 cowered in horror by, 
 Was one who saw the woeful sight, who 
 
 heard the woeful cry : 
 
 [91]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 *' Water ! One little drop, I beg ! For love 
 
 of Christ who died. . . /' 
 It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and 
 
 stole aside; 
 It was the little bare-foot boy who came with 
 
 cup abrim. 
 And walked up to the dying man, and gave 
 
 the drink to him. 
 
 A roar of rage ! They seize the boy ; they 
 
 tear him fast away. 
 The Prussian Major swings around; no longer 
 
 is he gay. 
 His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all 
 
 dark with spite : 
 '' Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, " that dare 
 
 defy our Prussian might. 
 Yet stay ! I have another thought. I'll 
 
 kindly be, and spare; 
 Quick ! give the lad a rifle charged, and set 
 
 him squarely there, 
 And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste ! 
 
 Make him understand 
 
 [92]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 The dying dog he fain would save shall per- 
 ish by his hand. 
 
 And all his kindred they shall see, and all 
 shall curse his name, 
 
 Who bought his life at such a cost, the price 
 of death and shame." 
 
 They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; 
 
 they made him understand ; 
 They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in 
 
 his hand. 
 "Make haste!" said they; "the time is 
 
 short, and you must kill or die." 
 The Major pufifed his cigarette, amusement 
 
 in his eye. 
 And then the dying zouave heard, and raised 
 
 his weary head : 
 " Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both ; shoot 
 
 swift and straight," he said. 
 " Fire first and last, and do not flinch, for 
 
 lost to hope am I ; 
 And I will murmur: Vive La France! and 
 
 bless you ere I die." 
 
 [93]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; 
 
 he seemed to swoon and sway ; 
 Then in that moment woke the soul of little 
 
 Jean Desprez. 
 He saw the woods go sheening down ; the 
 
 larks were singing clear ; 
 And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, 
 
 how sweet they were ! how dear ! 
 He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft 
 
 breeze fanned his brow ; 
 O, God ! the paths of peace and toil ! How 
 
 precious were they now ! 
 The summer days and summer ways, how 
 
 bright with hope and bliss ! 
 The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and 
 
 all must end in this : 
 This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles 
 
 all around; 
 That Zouave there with dying glare; the 
 
 blood upon the ground; 
 The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil 
 
 eyes afiame ; 
 That Prussian bully standing by, as if he 
 
 watched a game. 
 
 [94]
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 *' Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; 
 
 " A minute more I give ; 
 A minute more to kill your friend, if you 
 
 yourself would live." 
 
 They only saw a barefoot boy, with blanched 
 
 and twitching face ; 
 They did not see within his eyes the glory of 
 
 his race ; 
 The glory of a million men who for fair 
 
 France have died. 
 The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not 
 
 be denied. 
 Yet ... he was but a peasant lad, and oh ! 
 
 but life was sweet. . . . 
 " Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he 
 
 heard a voice repeat. 
 " Shoot ! Shoot ! " the dying Zouave 
 
 moaned ; " Shoot ! Shoot ! " the soldiers 
 
 said, 
 Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . 
 
 the Prussian Major dead! 
 
 [95]
 
 GOING HOME 
 
 GOING HOME 
 
 I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty — ain't I glad to 
 
 'ave the chance ! 
 I'm loaded up with fightin' and I've 'ad my 
 
 fill o' France ; 
 I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and 
 
 dance, 
 For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the 
 
 mawnin'. 
 
 I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty : can you wonder as 
 
 I'm gay? 
 I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a 
 
 year o' pay ; 
 A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest 
 
 sort o' way. 
 For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the 
 
 mawnin'. 
 
 'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the 
 front ! 
 
 [96]
 
 GOING HOME 
 
 I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear 
 
 the brunt; 
 But Cheese and Crust ! I'm crazy, now I've 
 done me little stunt, 
 To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'. 
 
 I've looked upon the wine that's white, and 
 
 on the wine that's red ; 
 I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly 
 
 turned me 'ead ; 
 But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is 
 done and said, 
 A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin' ! 
 
 I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to 
 
 strafe the 'Un ; 
 I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 
 
 'eap of fun ; 
 But now me flipper's busted, and I think me 
 
 dooty's done, 
 And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the 
 
 mawnin'. 
 
 Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some 
 of 'em be fine ; 
 
 [97]
 
 GOING HOME 
 
 And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented 
 
 f urrin' wine ; 
 But there's no land like England, and no 
 
 other gel like mine : 
 Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the 
 
 mawnin'. 
 
 [98]
 
 COCOTTE 
 
 COCOTTE 
 
 When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's 
 
 pretty, 
 And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a 
 
 home. 
 Heigh-ho ! She's as safe in Paris city 
 As a lamb night-strayed where the wild 
 
 wolves roam ; 
 And that was I. Oh, it's seven years now 
 (Some water's run down the Seine since 
 
 then). 
 And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the 
 
 tears now, 
 And I've almost taken the measure of men. 
 
 Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, 
 
 Artist and poet, and almost a boy. 
 
 And my heart was bruised, and my life was 
 
 lonely, 
 And him I adored with a wonderful joy. 
 
 [99]
 
 COCOTTE 
 
 If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, 
 How we'd have laughed in a garret gay ! 
 But he was rich, and in radiant plenty 
 We lived in a villa at Viroflay. 
 
 Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me ; 
 Then came the call, and he went away ; 
 All that he had in the world he left me, 
 With the rose- wreathed villa at Viroflay. 
 Then came the news and the tragic story: 
 My hero, my splendid lover was dead, 
 Sword in hand on the field of glory, 
 And he died with my name on his lips, they 
 said. 
 
 So here am I in my widow's mourning, 
 The weeds I've really no right to wear; 
 And women fix me with eyes of scorning. 
 Call me " cocotte," but I do not care. 
 And men look at me with eyes that borrow 
 The brightness of love, but I turn away ; 
 Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, 
 In my little villa at \^iroflay. 
 [loo]
 
 COCOTTE 
 
 And lo! I'm living alone with — Pity, 
 And they say that pity from love's not far; 
 Let me tell you all : last week in the city 
 I took the metro at Saint Lazare; 
 And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, 
 And when there entered at Chateaudun 
 Two wounded poiliis with medals showing, 
 I eagerly gave my seat to one. 
 
 You should have seen them: they'd slipped 
 
 death's clutches, 
 But sadder a sight you will rarely find ; 
 One had a leg off and walked on crutches, 
 The other, a bit of a boy, was blind. 
 And they both sat down, and the lad was 
 
 trying 
 To grope his way as a blind man tries ; 
 And half of the women around were crying, 
 And some of the men had tears in their eyes. 
 
 How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging 
 Just like a child to his crippled chum. 
 But I did not cry. Oh no ; a singing 
 Came to my heart for a year so dumb. 
 
 [lOl]
 
 COCOTTE 
 
 Then I knew that at three-and-twenty 
 There is wonderful work to be done, 
 Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, 
 Peace and light and love to be won. 
 
 Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given 
 
 To one who will live in the dark alway ! 
 
 To love and to serve — 'twould make life 
 
 Heaven 
 Here in my villa at Viroflay. 
 So I left my poiliis: and now you wonder 
 Why to-day I am so elate. . . . 
 Look ! In the glory of sunshine yonder 
 They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate. 
 
 [102]
 
 MY BAY'NIT 
 
 MY BAY'NIT 
 
 When first I left Blighty they gave me a 
 
 bay'nit, 
 And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv 
 
 gore; 
 But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it, 
 So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war. 
 For ain't it a fraud ! when a Boche and yours 
 
 truly 
 Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, 
 He jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell, and 'e's duly 
 Part o' me outfit ever)' time. 
 
 Left, right, Hans and Fritz ! 
 Goose step, keep up yer mits ! 
 Oh my, ain't it a shyme! 
 Part of me outfit every time. 
 
 At toasting a biscuit me bay 'nit's a dandy ; 
 I've used it to open a bully beef can ; 
 For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; 
 For any old thing but for sticking a man. 
 How often I said : " 'Ere, I'm goin' to press 
 you 
 
 [103]
 
 MY BAY'NIT 
 
 Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," 
 And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you ! 
 Part of me outfit every time. 
 
 Lor, yus ; don't they look glad? 
 Right o ! 'Owl Kamerad ! 
 Oh my ! always the syme ! 
 Part of me outfit every time. 
 
 I'm 'untin' for some one to christen me 
 bay'nit, 
 
 Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in 
 France ; 
 
 I'm fairly down-'earted — 'ow can yer ex- 
 plain it? 
 
 I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. 
 
 As soon as they sees me they ups and sur- 
 renders, 
 
 Extended like monkeys wot's tr}'in' to climb ; 
 
 And I uses me bay'nit — to slit their sus- 
 penders — 
 
 Part of me outfit every time. 
 
 Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag! 
 'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag ! 
 Oh, my ! ain't it a gyme ! 
 Part of me outfit every time. 
 [104]
 
 CARRY ON'! 
 
 CARRY ON! 
 
 It's easy to fight when everything's right, 
 And you're mad with the thrill and the glory ; 
 It's easy to cheer when victory's near, 
 And wallow in fields that are gory. 
 It's a different song when everything's wrong, 
 When you're feeling infernally mortal ; 
 When it's ten against one, and hope there is 
 
 none, 
 Buck up, little soldier, and chortle: 
 
 Carry on ! Carry on ! 
 There isn't much punch in your blow. 
 You're glaring and staring and hitting out 
 
 blind; 
 You're muddy and bloody, but never you 
 mind. 
 Carry on ! Carry on ! 
 Yon haven't the ghost of a show. 
 
 [105]
 
 CARRY ON ! 
 
 It's looking like death, but while you've a 
 breath, 
 Carry on, my son ! Carry on ! 
 
 And so in the strife of the battle of life 
 It's easy to fight when you're winning ; 
 It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, 
 When the dawn of success is beginning. 
 But the man who can meet despair and defeat 
 With a cheer, there's the man of Gk)d's choos- 
 ing; 
 The man who can fight to Heaven's own 
 
 height 
 Is the man who can fight when he's losing. 
 
 Carry on ! Carry on ! 
 Things never were looming so black ; 
 But show that you haven't a cowardly streak, 
 And though you're unlucky you never are 
 weak. 
 Carry on ! Carry on ! 
 Brace up for another attack. 
 It's looking like hell, but — you never can 
 tell: 
 Carry on, old man ! Carry on ! 
 [io6]
 
 CARRY ON! 
 
 There are some who drift out in the deserts 
 
 of doubt, 
 And some who in brutishness wallow ; 
 There are others, I know, who in piety go, 
 Because of a Heaven to follow. 
 But to labour with zest, and to give of your 
 
 best. 
 For the sweetness and joy of the giving ; 
 To help folks along with a hand and a song : 
 Why, there's the real sunshine of living. 
 
 Carry on ! Carry on ! 
 Fight the good fight and true ; 
 Believe in your mission, greet dawn with a 
 
 cheer ; 
 There's big work to do and that's why you 
 are here. 
 Carry on! Carry on! 
 Let the world be the better for you ; 
 And at last when you die, let this be your 
 cry: 
 Carry on, my soul! Carry on! 
 
 [107]
 
 OVER THE PARAPET 
 
 OVER THE PARAPET 
 
 All day long when the shells sail over 
 I stand at the sandbags and take my chance ; 
 But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover, 
 And over the parapet gleams Romance. 
 Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed 
 
 it, writing 
 Dreary old records of money and mart, 
 Me with my head chuckfiil of fighting 
 And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart. 
 
 But little I thought that my time was com- 
 ing, 
 
 Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon ; 
 
 And here I am with the bullets humming 
 
 As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon. 
 
 Out alone, for adventure thirsting, 
 
 Out in mysterious No Man's Land ; 
 
 Prone with the dead when a star-shell, burst- 
 ing. 
 
 Flares on the horrors on every hand. 
 [io8]
 
 OVER THE PARAPET 
 
 There are ruby stars and they drip and 
 wiggle ; 
 
 And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red ; 
 
 There are emerald stars, and their tails they 
 wriggle, 
 
 And ghastly they glare on the face of the 
 dead. 
 
 But the worst of all are the stars of white- 
 ness, 
 
 That spill in a pool of pearly flame, 
 
 Pretty as gems in their silver brightness. 
 
 And etching a man for a bullet's aim. 
 
 Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, 
 Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, 
 In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, 
 When the moon is decently hiding. Hark ! 
 What was that? Was it just the shiver 
 Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? 
 The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver 
 Of one of the ghosts of Xo Plan's Land? 
 
 It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, 
 And gibber and whisper horrible things ; 
 [109]
 
 OVER THE PARAPET 
 
 For to every foot of this God-forsaken 
 Zone of jeopard some horror chngs. 
 Ugh! What was that? It felt hke a jelly, 
 That flattish mound in the noisome grass; 
 You three big rats running free of its belly, 
 Out of my way and let me pass ! 
 
 But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder ; 
 The trench lights gleam and the rockets 
 
 play. 
 That flood of magnificent orange yonder 
 Is a battery blazing miles away. 
 With a rush and a singing a great shell 
 
 passes; 
 The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, 
 And here I crouch in the dew-drenched 
 
 grasses, 
 And look and listen and love it all. 
 
 God! What a life! But I must make 
 
 haste now, 
 Before the shadow of night be spent. 
 It's little the time there is to waste now, ' 
 If I'd do the job for which I was sent. 
 [no]
 
 OVER THE PARAPET 
 
 My bombs are right and my clippers ready, 
 And I wriggle out to the chosen place, 
 When I hear a rustle. . . . Steady ! . . . 
 
 Steady ! 
 Who am I staring slap in the face ? 
 
 There in the dark I can hear him breathing, 
 
 A foot away, and as still as death ; 
 
 And my heart beats hard, and my brain is 
 
 seething, 
 And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his 
 
 breath. 
 Then: ** Will you surrender?" I whisper 
 
 hoarsely, 
 For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. 
 ** English schwein-hund ! " he murmurs 
 
 coarsely. 
 " Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I. 
 
 So we grip and we slip and we trip and 
 
 wrestle 
 There in the gutter of Xo Man's Land ; 
 And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, 
 And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. 
 
 [HI]
 
 OVER THE PARAPET 
 
 And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him 
 
 tighter : 
 " Xow," I say, *' I can kill you fine ; 
 But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! 
 Have you any children?" He answers: 
 
 " Nein." 
 
 Nine! Well, I cannot kill such a father, 
 So I tie his hands and I leave him there. 
 Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; 
 And, I get home safe with some light to 
 
 spare. 
 Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty. 
 Doing the same old song and dance ; 
 But oh! with the night — joy, glory, beauty: 
 Over the parapet — Life, Romance! 
 
 [112]
 
 THE BALLAD OF SOULFUL SAM 
 
 THE BALLAD OF SOULFUL 
 SAM 
 
 You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of 
 
 the firin' line, 
 Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where 
 
 the bullets whine; 
 Out there where the bombs are bustin', and 
 
 the cannons like 'ell-doors slam — 
 Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell 
 
 you of Soulful Sam. 
 
 Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 
 
 'ad some mates as was wus ; 
 He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never 
 
 was known to cuss. 
 For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't 
 
 a friendly word; 
 But when it came down to Scriptures, say ! 
 
 Wasn't he just a bird! 
 ["3]
 
 THE BALLAD OF SOULFUL SAM 
 
 He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which 
 
 he would haste to present, 
 And though the fellers would use them in 
 
 ways that they never was meant, 
 I used to read 'em religious, and frequent 
 
 I've been impressed 
 By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he 
 
 carried around in his vest. 
 
 For I — and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror 
 
 the word conveys ! 
 'Ave been — let me whisper it 'oarsely — a 
 
 gambler 'alf of me days ; 
 A gambler, you 'ear — a gambler. It makes 
 
 me wishful to weep. 
 And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren! — I'd 
 
 rather gamble than sleep. 
 
 I've gambled the 'ole w^orld over, from 
 
 Monte Carlo to Maine; 
 From Dawson City to Dover, from San 
 
 Francisco to Spain. 
 [114]
 
 THE BALLAD OF SOULFUL SAM 
 
 Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've 
 
 taken me pride and me pelf, 
 And when I'd no one to play with — why, I'd 
 
 go and I'd play by meself. 
 
 And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I 
 
 shuffled a greasy deck, 
 And 'e'd say : " You're bound to Perdition," 
 
 And I'd answer: " Git off me neck ! " 
 And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, 
 
 though built on a different plan, 
 Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'ini sich a good 
 
 young man. 
 
 But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Dark- 
 ness! The battle-front! 
 
 The furious 'Uns attackin' ! Us ones 
 a-bearin' the brunt ! 
 
 Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to 
 keep calm. 
 
 When I 'ears some one singin' a 'ymn toon ; 
 — be'old! it is Soulful Sam. 
 [IIS]
 
 THE BALLAD OF SOULFUL SAM 
 
 Yes, right in the crash of the combat, in the 
 
 fury of flash and flame, 
 'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e 
 
 enjoyed the same. . 
 And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 
 
 'ordes of demons attacked. 
 He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded 
 
 me out a tract. 
 
 Then a star-shell flared, and I read it : Oh 
 Flee From The Wrath To Come! 
 
 Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 
 'earin' the bullets 'um. 
 
 And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one 
 of them bits of lead 
 
 Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my 
 partner. . . . Dead? 
 
 No, siree ! Not by a long sight ! For it 
 plugged 'im 'ard on the chest. 
 
 Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps 
 stowed away in 'is vest. 
 [ii6]
 
 THE BALLAD OF SOULFUL SAM 
 
 On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled 
 
 along, and it caved 
 A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys, — but 
 
 the life o' me pal was saved. 
 
 And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 
 'orror was chokin' me breath, 
 
 On came another bullet on its 'orrible mis- 
 sion of death ; 
 
 On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 
 'aven of rest, 
 
 And it zipped through a crack in the sand- 
 bags, and it wolloped me bang on the 
 breast. 
 
 Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. 
 Why am I sittin' 'ere 
 
 Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long 
 empty of beer? 
 
 With a throat as dry as a — oh, thanky ! I 
 don't much mind if I do. 
 
 Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my par- 
 ticular brew. 
 
 [117]
 
 THE BALLAD OF SOULFUI SAM 
 
 Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'am- 
 
 mered me 'ard o'er the 'eart ; 
 It bowled me down like a ninepin, and I 
 
 looked for the gore to start ; 
 And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that 
 
 thunder of hate and strife, 
 Me wretched past like a pitchur — the sins 
 
 of a gambler's life. 
 
 For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart 
 
 that made missile's doom ; 
 I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat 
 
 the tomb ; 
 I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to bafi^e a bullet's aim ; 
 I'd only — a deck of cards, boys, but . . . 
 
 it seemed to do just the same. 
 
 [ii8]
 
 ONLY A BOCHE 
 
 ONLY A BOCHE 
 
 We brought him in from between the hnes : 
 
 we'd better have let him He ; 
 For what's the use of risking one's skin for 
 
 a tyke that's going to die ? 
 What's the use of tearing him loose under a 
 
 gruelling fire, 
 When he's shot in the head, and worse than 
 
 dead, and all messed up on the wire ? 
 However, I say, we brought him in. Diable! 
 
 The mud was bad; 
 The trench was crooked and greasy and high, 
 
 and oh, what a time we had ! 
 And often we slipped, and often we tripped, 
 
 but never he made a moan ; 
 And how we were wet with blood and with 
 
 sweat, but we carried him in like our 
 
 own. 
 
 Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, await- 
 ing the ambulance, 
 
 [119]
 
 ONLY A BOCHE 
 
 And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, 
 and remarks, *' He hasn't a chance." 
 
 As we squat and smoke at our game of bridge 
 on the gHstening, straw-packed floor, 
 
 And above our oaths we can hear his breath 
 deep-drawn in a kind of snore. 
 
 For the dressing station is long and low, 
 
 and the candles gutter dim, 
 And the mean light falls on the cold clay 
 
 walls and our faces bristly and grim ; 
 And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, 
 
 and we laugh and jibe as we play, 
 And you'd never know that the cursed foe 
 
 was less than a mile away. 
 As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, 
 
 oppressed by that snoring breath, 
 You'd never dream that our broad roof- 
 
 beam was swept by the broom of death. 
 
 Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; 
 
 I rise and I stretch a bit; 
 The fetid air is making me yawn, and my 
 
 cigarette's unlit, 
 
 [120]
 
 ONLY A BOCHE 
 
 So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the 
 
 man we brought is there, 
 And his face is white in the shabby Hght, 
 
 and I stand at his feet and stare. 
 Stand for awhile, and quietly stare : for 
 
 strange though it seems to be, 
 The dying Boche on the stretcher there has 
 
 a queer resemblance to me. 
 
 It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to 
 come on a thing like that. 
 
 It's just as if I were lying there, with a tur- 
 ban of blood for a hat, 
 
 Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of 
 a coat grey-blue, 
 
 With one of my eyes all shot away, and my 
 brain half tumbling through ; 
 
 Lying there with a chest that heaves like a 
 bellows up and down, 
 
 And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, 
 and lips that are coffee brown. 
 
 And confound him, too ! He wears, like me, 
 on his finger a wedding ring, 
 
 [121]
 
 ONLY A BOCHE 
 
 And around his neck, as around my own, by 
 
 a greasy bit of string, 
 A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I 
 
 turn it about to see: 
 Just as I thought ... on the other side the 
 
 faces of children three ; 
 Clustered together cherub-like, three little 
 
 laughing girls, 
 With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the 
 
 usual silken curls. 
 " Zut ! " I say, " he has beaten me ; for me, 
 
 I have only two," 
 And I push the locket beneath his shirt, 
 
 feeling a little blue. 
 
 Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvel- 
 lous work of God, 
 
 Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a 
 smeary clod ; 
 
 Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan, but 
 it isn't that I mind, 
 
 It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's 
 the anguish he leaves behind. 
 
 [122]
 
 ONLY A BOCHE 
 
 For his going opens a tragic door that gives 
 
 on a world of pain, 
 And the death he dies, those who Hve and 
 
 love, will die again and again. 
 
 So here I am at my cards once more, but it's 
 
 kind of spoiling my play. 
 Thinking of those three brats of his so many 
 
 a mile away. 
 War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we 
 
 all of us take our chance ; 
 But all the same I'll be mighty glad when 
 
 I'm hearing the ambulance. 
 One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily 
 
 glad I'm not 
 The man who gave him his broken head, the 
 
 sniper who fired the shot. 
 
 No trumps you make it, I think you said? 
 
 You'll pardon me if I err ; 
 For a moment I thought of other things. . . . 
 
 Mon Dieiil Quelle vache de guerre. 
 
 [123]
 
 PILGRIMS 
 
 PILGRIMS 
 
 For, oh, when the war will be over 
 We'll go and we'll look for our dead; 
 We'll go when the bee's on the clover, 
 And the plume of the poppy is red : 
 We'll go when the year's at its gayest, 
 When meadows are laughing with flow'rs 
 And there where the crosses are greyest. 
 We'll seek for the cross that is ours. 
 
 For they cry to us : Friends, we are lonely, 
 
 A-weary the night and the day; 
 
 But come in the blossom-time only, 
 
 Come zvhen our graves zvill be gay: 
 
 IV hen daffodils all are a-blozving, 
 
 And larks are a-thrilling the skies. 
 
 Oh, come zcith the hearts of yon glowing, 
 
 And the jo\ of the Spring in your eyes. 
 
 [124]
 
 PILGRIMS 
 
 But never, oh, never come sighing, 
 For ours was the Splendid Release; 
 And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying 
 To know we were winning you Peace! 
 So come when the valleys are sheening. 
 And fledged with the promise of grain; 
 And here luhere our graves will be greening, 
 Just smile and be happy again. 
 
 And so, when the war will be over, 
 We'll seek for the Wonderful One; 
 And maiden will look for her lover, 
 And mother will look for her son ; 
 And there will be end to our grieving, 
 And gladness will gleam over loss, 
 As — glory beyond all believing ! 
 We point — to a name on a cross. 
 
 [125]
 
 MY PRISONER 
 
 MY PRISONER 
 
 We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; 
 
 Fightin* wiv our bayonets was we; 
 
 Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, 
 
 Fightin' fierce as fire because 
 
 It was 'im or me as must be downed 
 
 'E was twice as big as me; 
 
 I was 'arf the weight of 'e; 
 
 We was like a terryer and a 'ound. 
 
 'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. 
 
 Me — Fm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. 
 
 Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf! 
 
 Why, it fairly made me laugh, 
 
 'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound, 
 
 Couldn't fight for monkey-nuts. 
 
 Soon I gets 'im in the guts, 
 
 There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground. 
 
 [126]
 
 MY PRISONER 
 
 In I goes to finish up the job. 
 
 Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; 
 
 Speakin' English good as me: 
 
 " Tain't no use to kill," says 'e ; 
 
 "Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" 
 
 "Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; 
 
 " But — yer knows the reason why : 
 
 If we pokes our noses out we're dead. 
 
 " Sorry, sir. Then, on the other 'and 
 
 (As a gent like you must understand), 
 
 If I 'olds you longer 'ere, 
 
 Wiv yer pals so werry near, 
 
 It's me 'o'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; 
 
 If I lets yer go away, 
 
 Why, you'll fight another day : 
 
 See the sitooation I am in. 
 
 " Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, 
 Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, 
 Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel 
 Of a 'alf a yard o' steel, 
 I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; 
 Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . 
 
 [127]
 
 MY PRISONER 
 
 'Ere, ol' man ! You keep 'em stuck, 
 Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead." 
 
 'Ow 'is mits shot up, it made me smile ! 
 'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while. 
 Then 'e says : " It seems a shyme. 
 Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme : 
 Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods. 
 Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure 
 You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ." 
 ** In war," says I, " that makes no blurry 
 odds." 
 
 Then says 'e : " I've painted picters too. . . . 
 Oh, dear God ! The work I planned to do, 
 And to think this is the end ! " 
 " 'Ere," says I, " my hartist friend, 
 Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. 
 Picters, statoos, is that why 
 You should be let off to die? 
 That the best ye done? Just say yer 
 prayers." 
 
 [128]
 
 MY PRISOjfcR 
 
 Once again 'e seems ter think awhile, 
 l^hen 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: 
 " Why, no, sir, it's not the best ; 
 There's a locket next me breast, 
 Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. 
 That's the best I've done," says 'e. 
 " That's me darter, aged three. . . ." 
 '* Blimy ! " says I, " I've a nipper, too." 
 
 Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; 
 
 Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride 
 
 Me own little Mary Jane. 
 
 Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine, 
 
 And we talks as friendly as can be ; 
 
 Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, 
 
 'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day. 
 
 Wonders — 'oiu zi'ould 'e 'ave treated mei 
 
 [129]
 
 "ft^I-COLOUR 
 
 TRI-COLOUR 
 
 Poppies, you try to tell me, glowing there 
 
 in the wheat ; 
 Poppies ! Ah no ! You mock me : It's 
 
 blood, I tell you, it's blood. 
 It's gleaming wet in the grasses, it's glist'- 
 
 ning warm in the wheat ; 
 It dabbles the ferns and the clover ; it brims 
 
 in an angry flood ; 
 It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers 
 
 the sun ; it cries 
 With scarlet voices of triumph from blos- 
 som and bough and blade. 
 See the bright horror of it ! It's roaring out 
 
 of the skies, 
 And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . 
 
 O God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid! 
 
 Cornflowers, you say, just cornflowers, gem- 
 ming the golden grain ; 
 
 Ah no ! You can't deceive me. Can't I be- 
 lieve my eyes? 
 
 Look ! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on 
 the dreadful plain, 
 [130]
 
 TRI-COLOUR 
 
 All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at 
 
 the skies. 
 Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the 
 
 yellow wheat. 
 See how they sprawl and huddle ! See how 
 
 their brows are white ! 
 Goaded on to the shambles, there in death 
 
 and defeat. . . . 
 Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, 
 
 Thy night ! 
 
 Lilies (the light is waning), only lilies you 
 
 say, 
 Nestling and softly shining there where the 
 
 spear-grass waves. 
 No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see 
 
 than day: 
 It's the poor little wooden crosses over their 
 
 quiet graves. 
 Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! 
 
 Each cross has a crown. 
 Yes, it's true I am dying — little will be the 
 
 loss. . . . 
 Darkness . . . but look ! In Heaven, a light, 
 
 and it's shining down. . . . 
 God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm 
 
 going to win — m v Cross. 
 
 [131]
 
 A POT OF TEA 
 
 A POT OF TEA 
 
 You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's 
 
 rosy gleam ; 
 You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; 
 You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff 
 
 the fragrant steam ; 
 The very breath of it is ripe with cheer. 
 You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursing of 
 
 your lot; 
 You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and 
 
 ripping 'ot ; 
 It bucks you up like any think, just seems 
 
 to touch the spot: 
 God bless the man that first discovered 
 
 Tea! 
 
 Since I came out to fight in France, which 
 
 ain't the other day, 
 I think I've drunk enough to float a barge ; 
 All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy 
 
 and doo lay,
 
 A POT OF TEA 
 
 To rum they serves you out before a charge. 
 
 In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled 
 pints of cham; 
 
 I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt 
 a bloomin' dam ; 
 
 But 'struth ! they all ain't in it with the vint- 
 age of Assam: 
 God bless the man that first invented Tea ! 
 
 I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on 
 asphodel 
 
 Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; 
 
 I only wish them sons o' guns a-grilling down 
 in *ell 
 
 Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong. 
 
 Hurrah ! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 
 'eaven too ; 
 
 And if I don't give some poor bloke a sex- 
 ton's job to do, 
 
 To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a 
 gorgeous brew 
 (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea). 
 
 To-night we'll all be telling of the Bodies 
 that we slew, 
 As we drink the giddy victory in Tea. 
 
 [133]
 
 THE REVELATION 
 
 THE REVELATION 
 
 The same old sprint in the morning, boys, 
 
 to the same old din and smut; 
 Chained all day to the same old desk, dozvn 
 
 in the same old rut; 
 Posting the same old greasy hooks, catching 
 
 the same old train: 
 Oh, hoiv zcill I manage to stick it all, if I ever 
 
 get back again? 
 
 We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, 
 
 we're finished with pushing a pen; 
 They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, 
 
 they're showing us how to be men. 
 We're only beginning to find ourselves ; we're 
 
 wonders of brawn and thew; 
 But when we go back to our Sissy jobs — 
 
 oh, what are we going to do ? 
 
 [134]
 
 THE REVELATION 
 
 For shoulders curved with the counter stoop 
 
 will be carried erect and square ; 
 And faces white from the office light will 
 
 be bronzed by the open air ; 
 And we'll walk with the stride of a new-bom 
 
 pride, with a new-found joy in our eyes, 
 Scornful men who have diced with death 
 
 under the naked skies. 
 
 And when we get back to the dreary grind, 
 
 and the bald-headed boss's call, 
 Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, 
 
 and the dingier ofifice wall, 
 Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of 
 
 violent, flame-scarred night? 
 Then ... oh the joy of the danger-thrill, 
 
 and oh, the roar of the fight! 
 
 Don't you think as we peddle a card of 
 pins the counter will fade away, 
 
 And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, 
 and the barb-wire's misty grey? 
 
 [13;]
 
 THE REVELATION 
 
 As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't 
 
 you fancy we'll hear instead 
 The night-wind moan and the soothing drone 
 
 of the packet that's overhead? 
 
 Don't you guess that the things we're seeing 
 
 now will haunt us through/all the years ; 
 Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and 
 
 blood and tears; 
 Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, 
 
 where once we wove with a grey, 
 To remind us all how we played our part in 
 
 the shock of an epic day? 
 
 Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure 
 now, we're pledged to the Real Ro- 
 mance ; 
 
 We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves 
 somewhere in giddy old France ; 
 
 We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the 
 best that we have we'll give ; 
 
 We'll hunger and thirst ; we'll die . . . but 
 first — we'll live ; by the Gods, we'll live ! 
 [i3^>]
 
 THE REVELATION 
 
 We'll breathe the free air and we'll bivouac 
 
 under the starry sky ; 
 We'll march with men, and we'll fight with 
 
 men, and we'll see men laugh and die ; 
 We'll know such joy as we never dreamed ; 
 
 we'll fathom the deeps of pain : 
 But the hardest bit of it all will be — when 
 
 we come back home again. 
 
 For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, and 
 
 some of us teach in a schools- 
 Some of tus help with the seat of our pants to 
 
 polish an office stool; 
 The merits of somebody's soap or jam some 
 
 of us seek to explain, 
 But all of us zvonder zvhat we'll do when zee 
 
 have to go back again. 
 
 [137]
 
 GRAND-PERE 
 
 GRAND-PERE 
 
 And so when he reached my bed 
 The General made a stand : 
 " My brave young fellow," he said, 
 ** I would shake your hand." 
 
 So I lifted my arm, the right, 
 With never a hand at all ; 
 Only a stump, a sight 
 Fit to appal. 
 
 " Well, well. Now that's too bad ! 
 That's sorrowful luck," he said; 
 " But there ! You give me, my lad. 
 The left instead." 
 
 So from under the blanket's rim 
 I raised and showed him the other, 
 A snag as ugly and grim 
 As its ugly brother. 
 [•38]
 
 GRAND-PERE 
 
 He looked at each jagged wrist; 
 He looked, but he did not speak ; 
 And then he bent down and kissed 
 Me on either cheek. 
 
 You wonder now I don't mind 
 I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . 
 They tell me (you know I'm blind) 
 'Twas Grand-pcre Joffre, 
 
 [139]
 
 SON 
 
 SON 
 
 He hurried away, young heart of joy, under 
 
 our Devon sky! 
 And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and 
 
 a weary woman was I. 
 For my hair is grey, and his was gold ; he'd 
 
 the best of his life to live, 
 And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; 
 
 and he's all I had to give. 
 
 Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but 
 
 oh how my eyes were dim ! 
 With the sun in his heart he went away, but 
 
 he took the sun with him. 
 For look ! How the leaves are falling now, 
 
 and the winter won't be long. . . . 
 Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and 
 
 the lips of love and of song! 
 [140]
 
 SON 
 
 How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, 
 we two by the fireHght's gleam, 
 
 And we'd drift to the \'alley of Let's Pre- 
 tend, on the beautiful river of Dream. 
 
 Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold 
 would I gladly, gladly pay 
 
 Could I just for a moment closely hold that 
 golden head to my grey. 
 
 For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there 
 
 a child, and he waves to me ; 
 And I run and I hold him up in the air, and 
 
 he laughs and shouts with glee ; 
 A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: 
 
 *' Come, ]\Iumsie dear ! " 
 Ah me! If he called from the ends of the 
 
 earth I know that my heart would hear. 
 
 Yet the thought comes thrilling through all 
 my pain : how worthier could he die ? 
 
 Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and 
 pitiful proud am I. 
 
 [141]
 
 SON 
 
 For Peace must be bought with blood and 
 tears, and the boys of our hearts must 
 pay; 
 
 And so in our joy of the after-years, let us 
 bless them every day. 
 
 And though I know there's a hasty grave 
 
 with a poor little cross at its head, 
 And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, 
 
 yet to me he'll never be dead. 
 And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, 
 
 and my boy will be with me still, 
 So I'm finding the heart to smile and say : 
 
 " Oh God, if it be Thy Will ! " 
 
 [142]
 
 THE BLACK DUDEEN 
 
 THE BLACK DUDEEN 
 
 Humping it here in the dug-out, 
 
 Sucking me black dudecn, 
 
 I'd like to say in a general way. 
 
 There's nothing like Nickyteen; 
 
 There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys. 
 
 Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; 
 
 So be sure that a bloke 
 
 Has plenty to smoke, 
 
 If you zvants him to fight your wars. 
 
 When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, 
 I begin to think of my baccy plug. 
 I whittle a fill in my horny palm, 
 And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. 
 I trim the edges, I tamp it down, 
 I nurse a light with an anxious frown ; 
 I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in. 
 And all my face is a blissful grin ; 
 And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, 
 And the good pipe glimmers and fades and 
 glows ; 
 
 [143]
 
 THE BLACK DUDEEN 
 
 In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, 
 For I Hkes it hot and I Hkes it strong. 
 Oh, it's good is grub when you're feehng 
 
 hollow, 
 But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow. 
 
 There was Micky and me on a night patrol, 
 Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole ; 
 And sure I thought I was worse than dead 
 Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me 
 
 head. 
 Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, 
 Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. 
 And mind you, water up to your knees. 
 And cold ! A monkey of brass would freeze. 
 And if we ventured our noses out 
 A " typewriter " clattered its pills about. 
 The Field of Glory! Well, I don't think! 
 Fd sooner be safe and snug in clink. 
 
 Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, 
 He always was having ill luck, poor lad. 
 Says he : " Old chummy, Fm booked right 
 
 through ; 
 Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. 
 [1441
 
 THE BLACK DUDEEN 
 
 But . . . 'avn't you got a pinch of shag? — 
 I'd sell me perishm' soul for a fag." 
 And there he shivered and cussed his luck, 
 So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. 
 And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it 
 Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit ; 
 Like an infant takes to his mother's breast 
 Poor little ]\Iicky! he went to rest. 
 
 But the dawn was near, though the night was 
 
 black, 
 So I left him there and I started back. 
 And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, 
 For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. 
 Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near. 
 And one little blighter just chipped me ear. 
 But there ! I got to the trench all right, 
 When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, 
 And a word that doesn' look well in type : 
 I'd clean forgotten me old clay pipe. 
 
 So I had to do it all over again, 
 
 Crawling out on that filthy plain. 
 
 Through shells and bombs and bullets and 
 
 all — 
 Only this time — I do not crawl. 
 
 [145]
 
 THE BLACK DUDEEN 
 
 I run like a man wot's missing a train, 
 Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. 
 I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun 
 Tickle my heels, hut I run, I run. 
 Through crash and crackle, and flicker and 
 
 flame, 
 (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me 
 
 name!) 
 I run like a man that's no ideer 
 Of hunting around for a souveneer. 
 I run bang into a German chap. 
 And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. 
 And just to show him that I'm his boss, 
 I gives him a kick on the parados. 
 And I marches him back with me all serene, 
 With, tucked in me giib, me old dudccn. 
 
 Sitting here in the trenches 
 
 Me heart's a-spUttin' with spleen, 
 
 For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, 
 
 But it smashes me old dudcen. 
 
 God blast that red-headed sniper! 
 
 ril give him something to snipe; 
 
 Before the war's through 
 
 Just see hozv I do 
 
 That blighter that smashed me pipe. 
 
 [146]
 
 THE LITTLE PIOU-PIOU 
 
 THE LITTLE PIOU-PIOU * 
 
 Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, 
 
 And some of us slinked in the slum ; 
 
 But now we are here with a song and a cheer 
 
 To serve at the sign of the drum. 
 
 They put us in trousers of scarlet. 
 
 In big sloppy ulsters of blue; 
 
 In boots that are flat, a box of a hat. 
 
 And they call us the little piou-piou, 
 
 Piou-piou, 
 The laughing and quaffing piou-piou ; 
 The swinging and singing piou-piou ; 
 And so with a rattle we march to the battle. 
 The weary but cheery piou-piou. 
 
 Encore iin petit z-crre dc z'in. 
 Pour nous mcttre en route; 
 Encore un petit verre de vin 
 Pour nous niettrc en train. 
 
 * The French " Tommy." 
 
 [147]
 
 THE LITTLE PIOU-PIOU 
 
 They drive us head-on for the slaughter ; 
 
 We haven't got much of a chance; 
 
 The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad 
 
 To battle and die for La France. 
 
 For some must be killed, that is certain; 
 
 There's only one's duty to do ; 
 
 So we leap to the fray in the glorious way 
 
 They expect of the little piou-piou. 
 
 £n avant! 
 The way of the gallant piou-piou ; 
 The dashing and smashing piou-piou; 
 The way grim and gory that leads us to glory 
 Is the way of the little piou-piou. 
 
 Allans, enfants dc la Patrie, 
 Le jour de gloire est arrive. 
 
 To-day you would scarce recognise us, 
 
 Such veterans war-wise are we ; 
 
 So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, 
 
 So '' crummy," yet gay as can be. 
 
 We've finished with trousers of scarlet. 
 
 They're giving us breeches of blue, 
 
 With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, 
 
 [148]
 
 THE LITTLE PIOU-PIOU 
 
 Yet still we're the little plou-piou. 
 
 A^ous les aurons! 
 The jesting, unresting piou-piou ; 
 The cheering, unfearing piou-piou ; 
 The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the- 
 
 devil ; 
 The dying, defying piou-piou. 
 
 A la hayonctte! Jusqu'a la mort! 
 Sonnez la charge, clairons! 
 
 [149]
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 The poppies gleamed like bloody pools 
 
 through cotton-woolly mist ; 
 The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch 
 
 upon his wrist ; 
 And there we smoked and squatted, as we 
 
 watched the shrapnel flame ; 
 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast 
 
 them bullets came. 
 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I 
 
 tried to sleep a wink, 
 For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't 
 
 do to think. 
 So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a 
 
 niceish dream 
 Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of 
 
 Devon cream ; 
 But I hadn't time to sample it, for sudden 
 
 like I woke : 
 " Come on, me lads ! " the Captain says, 'n' I 
 
 climbed out through the smoke. 
 [ISO]
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 Wq Spread out in the open : it was like a 
 
 bath of lead ; 
 But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to 
 
 raise the bloody dead, 
 Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they 
 
 lay without a sound, 
 And it's odd — we didn't seem to heed them 
 
 corpses on the ground. 
 And I kept on thinkin', thinkin' as the bullets 
 
 faster flew. 
 How they picks the werry best men, and they 
 
 lets the rotters through ; 
 So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man 
 
 of sin. 
 And a rare lad wots a husband and a father 
 
 gets done in. 
 And while havin' these reflections and ad- 
 
 vancin' on the run, 
 A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I : 
 
 " That's number one." 
 
 \\'ell, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't 
 
 lose me calm, 
 For I knew that I was needed: I'm a 
 
 bomber, so I am. 
 
 [151]
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I " carried 
 
 on " because 
 I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was 
 
 needed, so they was. 
 We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many 
 
 men to cheer; 
 Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashing 
 
 out so werry near ; 
 And the Maxims got us sideways, and the 
 
 bullets faster flew, 
 And I copped one on me flipper, and says I : 
 
 " That's number two." 
 
 I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad 
 me bombs, ye see, 
 
 And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and 
 all along o' me. 
 
 And I'd lost me 'at and rifle — but I told 
 you that before. 
 
 So I packed me mit inside me coat and '' car- 
 ried on " once more. 
 
 But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men 
 were scarcer yet, 
 
 [152]
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I 
 
 kindo set, 
 And we passed the Boche first trenches, 
 
 which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, 
 And we started for their second, which was 
 
 fifty feet ahead ; 
 When something Hke a 'ammer smashed me 
 
 savage on the knee. 
 And down I came all muck and blood : Says 
 
 I : " That's number three." 
 
 So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick 
 
 at that. 
 And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost 
 
 me 'at; 
 And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' 
 
 words she said: 
 " If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and 
 
 tell me as you're dead." 
 And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs — that was 
 
 the 'ardest blow. 
 To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url 
 
 them at the foe. 
 
 [153]
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' 
 
 there like mad, 
 And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wi' the lovely 
 
 bombs I 'ad. 
 And so I cussed and cussed, and tb.en I 
 
 struggled back again, 
 Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid 
 
 with its slain. 
 
 Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of 
 
 me lot. 
 And wishin' I could just dispose of all them 
 
 bombs I'd got, 
 I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' 
 
 dug-out 
 Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain 
 
 stuck 'is mug out ; 
 And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I 
 
 twigged what they was at; 
 And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 
 
 'em like a cat ; 
 And they got it in position, and they seemed 
 
 so werry glad, 
 
 [154]
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, 
 condemn their souls ! they 'ad. 
 
 For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in 
 front, and 'ere 
 
 This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us 
 in the rear. 
 
 Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite for- 
 got me pain, 
 So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them 
 
 mounds of slain ; 
 And them barstards was so busy-like they 
 
 'ad no eyes for me, 
 And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me 
 
 right arm it was free. . . . 
 And now they 'ave it all in shape, and 
 
 swingin' sweet and clear ; 
 And now they're all excited like, but — I am 
 
 drawin' near; 
 And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now 
 
 they're takin' aim. . . . 
 Rat-taf-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where 
 
 I join the game. 
 
 [155]
 
 BILL THE BOMBER 
 
 And my right arm it goes swingin', and a 
 
 bomb it goes a-slingin', 
 And that '' typewriter " goes wingin' in a 
 
 thunderbolt of flame. 
 
 Then these Boches, wot was left of them, 
 
 they tumbled down their 'ole, 
 And up I climbed a mound of dead, and 
 
 down on them I stole. 
 And oh that blessed moment when I heard 
 
 their frightened yell, 
 And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I 
 
 bombed their souls to hell. 
 And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that 
 
 I'm alive; 
 We started out a thousand men, we came 
 
 back thirty-five. 
 And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most 
 
 amazin' gay, 
 For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, 
 
 you might say, " thrown away." 
 
 [156]
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY MC GRAW 
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY 
 MC GRAW 
 
 You may talk o' your lutes and your dulci- 
 mers fine, 
 
 Your harps and your tabors and cymbals 
 and a', 
 
 But here m the trenches jist gie me for mine 
 
 The wee penny w^histle o' Sandy McGravv. 
 
 Oh it's : " Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us 
 a tune ? " 
 
 And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad ; 
 
 Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', 
 
 And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. 
 
 Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your 
 hert. 
 
 And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for 
 hame ; 
 
 And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' 
 the stert 
 
 O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. 
 
 [157]
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY MC GRAW 
 
 For his song's o' the heather, and here in 
 
 the dirt 
 You listen and dream o' a land that's sae 
 
 braw, 
 And he male's you forget a' the harm and the 
 
 hurt, 
 For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy i\Ic- 
 
 'Graw. 
 
 At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank 
 We rose from the trenches and swept like 
 
 the gale, 
 Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the 
 
 flank 
 And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like 
 
 hail : 
 Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke ; 
 Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout. 
 When shrill through the fume and the flash 
 
 and the smoke 
 The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. 
 The Campbells are Comin : Then into the 
 
 fray 
 We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, 
 
 [158]
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY MC GRAW 
 
 And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, 
 Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw. 
 
 At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, 
 On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot, 
 And the rockets were burnin' red holes in 
 
 the nicht. 
 And the guns they were veciously thimderin' 
 
 oot, 
 When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh, 
 And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw : 
 " Whit ails ye, ma lad ? Are ye woundit ? " 
 
 says I. 
 " I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy 
 
 McGraw. 
 " 'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed 
 
 the attack. 
 It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo 
 
 and dawn 
 There isna much time so, I'm jist crawlin' 
 
 back. . . ." 
 " Ye're daft, man ! " I telt him, but Sandy 
 
 wis gone. 
 
 [159]
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY MC GRAW 
 
 Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot 
 
 masel, 
 And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' 
 
 around, 
 And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, 
 And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the 
 
 sound. 
 And I says in ma mind : " Gang ye back, 
 
 ye auld f ule ! " 
 When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy 
 
 and sma'; 
 And there in a crater, collected and cool, 
 Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy Mc- 
 
 Graw. 
 Aye, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, 
 And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche ; 
 Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae 
 
 me, 
 And he says : " Dinna blab on me. Sergeant 
 
 McTosh. 
 The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae 
 
 play. 
 It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een 
 
 shine ! '* 
 And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray 
 
 [160]
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY MC GRAW 
 
 Wee Sandy wis playin' The Watch on the 
 Rhine. 
 
 The last scene o' a' — 'twas the day that we 
 
 took 
 That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. 
 It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and 
 
 shook, 
 And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' 
 
 oot shell. 
 And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us 
 
 in hand, 
 And hard on the leash we were strainin' like 
 
 dugs, 
 When upward we shot at the word o' com- 
 mand. 
 And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor 
 
 lugs. 
 And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, 
 And a' wis destruction, confusion and din, 
 And we knew that the trench o' the Boches 
 
 wis near. 
 And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be 
 
 in. 
 
 [i6i]
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY MC GRAW 
 
 So we a' tumbled doon, and the Bodies were 
 
 there. 
 And they held up their hands, and they yelled : 
 
 '' Kamarad ! " 
 And I marched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms 
 
 in the air. 
 And my ! I wis prood-like, and my ! I wis 
 
 glad. 
 And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist 
 
 then. . . . 
 When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw, 
 And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma 
 
 men. 
 For there on a stretcher wis Sandy AIcGraw. 
 
 Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye 
 please : 
 
 ** Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he ; 
 
 " But noo I can play in the street for baw- 
 bees, 
 
 Wi' baith o' ma legs taken afT at the knee." 
 
 And though I could see he wis rackit wi 
 pain, 
 
 He reached for his whistle and stertit tae 
 play, 
 
 [162]
 
 THE WHISTLE OF SANDY MC GRAW 
 
 And quaverin* sweet wis the pensive refrain : 
 '' The Hoors o' the forest are a' wede away." 
 Then sudden he stoppit : *' Man, wis it no 
 
 grand 
 Hoo we took a' they trenches ? "... He 
 
 shakit his heid. . . . 
 " ril — no — play — nae — mair " fee- 
 bly doon frae his hand 
 Slipped the wee penny whistle and . . . 
 Sandy ivis deid. 
 
 And so you may talk o' your Steinways and 
 
 Strads, 
 Your wunnerful organs and brasses sae 
 
 braw ; 
 But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, 
 Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. 
 
 [163]
 
 THE STRETCHER-BEARER 
 
 THE STRETCHER-BEARER 
 
 My stretcher is one scarlet stain, 
 And as I tries to scrape it clean, 
 I tell you wot — I'm sick with pain 
 For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; 
 Around me is the 'ellish night. 
 And as the war's red rim I trace, 
 I wonder if in 'eaven's height 
 Our God don't turn away 'Is Face. 
 
 I don't care 'ose the Crime may be; 
 
 I holds no brief fer kin or clan ; 
 
 I 'ymns no 'ate : I only see 
 
 As man destroys his brother man; 
 
 I waves no flag ; I only know, 
 
 As 'ere beside the dead I wait, 
 
 A million 'earts is weighed with woe, 
 
 A million 'omes is desolate. 
 
 In dripping darkness, far and near. 
 All night I've sought them woeful ones. 
 Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear 
 
 [164]
 
 THE STRETCHER-BEARER 
 
 The crimson chorus of the guns. 
 Look ! like a ball of blood the sun 
 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and 
 
 wrong. . . . 
 " Quick ! Stretcher-bearers on the run ! " 
 Prince of Peace! 'Ow long, 'oiv long? 
 
 [i6s]
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, 
 With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum 
 
 round, 
 I did my decent job and earned my pay; 
 Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. 
 Aye, in my little groove I was content, 
 Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, 
 With prosy days in stolid labour spent. 
 And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. 
 In God's good time a hearth-fire's cosy gleam, 
 A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs ; 
 When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: 
 I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. 
 I yell with rage ; I wallow deep in gore : 
 I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store. 
 
 Stranger than any book I've ever read. 
 
 Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, 
 
 Under the stars, propped up with smeary 
 
 dead. 
 Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. 
 [i66]
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall ; 
 Damn glad there's nothing more of me to 
 
 hit; 
 But calm, and feeling never pain at all. 
 And full of wonder at the turn of it. 
 For of the dead around me three are mine, 
 Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of 
 
 fight; 
 So if I die I have no right to whine, 
 I feel I've done my little bit all right. 
 I don't know how — but there the beggars 
 
 are, 
 As dead as herrings pickled in a jar. 
 
 And here am I, worse wounded than I 
 
 thought ; 
 For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings ; 
 You never heed ; the air is metal-hot. 
 And all alive with little flicking wings. 
 But on you charge. You see the fellows fall ; 
 Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad ; 
 You turn to him, and lo ! no pal at all ; 
 You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. 
 But on you charge. The heavens vomit 
 
 death ; 
 
 [167]
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 And vicious death is besoming the ground. 
 You're bhnd with sweat ; you're dazed, and 
 
 out of breath, 
 And though you yell, you cannot hear a 
 
 sound. 
 But on you charge. Oh, War's a rousing 
 
 game! 
 Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower ; 
 The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of 
 
 flame, 
 And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. 
 But on you charge. It's odd ! You have no 
 
 fear. 
 Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path ; 
 Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear ; 
 The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. 
 But on you charge. Barbed wire all tram- 
 pled down; 
 The ground all gored and rent as by a blast ; 
 Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of 
 
 brown ; 
 A ragged ditch, the Hun first line at last. 
 All smashed to hell. Their second right 
 
 ahead, 
 
 [i68]
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 So on yoii charge. There's nothing else to 
 do. 
 
 More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, grue- 
 some dead 
 
 (Your puttee strap's undone — that worries 
 you). 
 
 You glare around. You think you're all 
 alone. 
 
 But no; your chums come surging left and 
 right. 
 
 The nearest chap flops down without a groan, 
 
 His face still snarling with the rage of fight. 
 
 Ha! here's the second trench — just hke the 
 first, 
 
 Only a little more so, more " laid out " ; 
 
 ^lore pounded, flame-corroded, death-ac- 
 curst ; 
 
 A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. 
 
 Now for the third, and there your job is done, 
 
 So on you charge. You never stop to think. 
 
 Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run ; 
 
 You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. 
 
 The acrid air is full of cracking whips. 
 
 You wonder how it is you're going still. 
 
 [169]
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 You foam with rage. O God! to be at 
 
 grips 
 With someone you can rush and crush and 
 
 kill. 
 Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing 
 
 red ; 
 You're battle-mad ; your turn is coming 
 
 now. 
 See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight 
 
 ahead, 
 And there's the trench — you'll get there any- 
 how. 
 Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, 
 And down you go ; perhaps it saves your 
 
 Hfe, 
 For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, 
 Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with 
 
 strife. 
 You crawl, you cower ; then once again you 
 
 plunge 
 With all your comrades roaring at your 
 
 heels. 
 Have at 'em, lads! You stab, you jab, you 
 
 lunge ; 
 A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. 
 [i7ol
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a 
 
 bit . . . 
 That cursed puttee ! Xow to fasten it. . . . 
 
 Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here 
 
 alone. 
 I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, 
 To shield me from the leaden bees that drone 
 ( It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). 
 The only thing I'm wondering is when 
 Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way ? 
 It isn't much that's left of me, but then 
 Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. 
 Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. 
 I tell you I won't envy any king. 
 I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and 
 
 glad; 
 I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the 
 
 thing ! 
 It gives us common, working chaps our 
 
 chance, 
 A taste of glory, chivalry, romance. 
 
 Aye, \War, they say, is hell ; it's heaven, too. 
 It lets a man discover what he's worth.
 
 WOUNDED 
 
 It takes his measure, shows what he can do, 
 Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. 
 It fans in him a flame that otherwise 
 Would flicker out, these drab, discordant 
 
 days; 
 It teaches him in pain and sacrifice 
 Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. 
 Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, 
 A happy wreck I wait amid the din ; 
 For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . 
 Hi there, you fellows! Won't you take me 
 
 in? 
 Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . 
 We've taken La Boiselle ! The hell, you say ! 
 Well, that would make a corpse sit up and 
 
 grin. 
 Lead on ! I'll live to fight another day. 
 
 [172]
 
 FAITH 
 
 FAITH 
 
 Since all that is was ever bound to be ; 
 Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind ; 
 And both the riddle and the answer find, 
 And both the carnage and the calm decree ; 
 Since plain within the Book of Destiny 
 Is written all the journey of mankind 
 Inexorably to the end ; since blind 
 And mortal puppets playing parts are we : 
 
 Then let's have faith ; good cometh out of ill ; 
 The power that shaped the strife shall end the 
 
 strife ; 
 Then let's bow down before the Unknown 
 
 Will ; 
 Fight on, believing all is well with life; 
 Seeing within the worst of Wear's red rage 
 The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age. 
 
 [173]
 
 THE COWARD 
 
 THE COWARD 
 
 'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day ? 
 'E's gyned the \'ictoriar Cross, they say ; 
 Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, 
 
 If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. 
 'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons ; 
 'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns, 
 And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns 
 
 Afore 'e went off to the war. 
 
 Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is byby clothes ; 
 Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes ; 
 'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose 
 
 Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. 
 And now all the papers 'is praises ring, 
 And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the 
 
 King 
 And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore 
 thing. 
 
 Where they're patching 'im up once more. 
 
 And 'e says : '' Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer 
 Ann?" 
 
 [174]
 
 THE COWARD 
 
 And I says : " Well, I can't make it out, old 
 
 man; 
 You'd ook it as soon as a scrap began, 
 
 When you was a bit of a kid." 
 And 'e whispers : '' 'Ere, on the quiet, Liz, 
 They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, 
 And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, 
 
 Eut . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did. 
 
 " Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says : ' Look 
 
 'ere! 
 They're far too quiet out there : it's queer. 
 They're up to somethin' — 'oo'U volunteer 
 
 To crawl in the dark and see ? ' 
 Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go. 
 And up jumps a chap and 'e says : ' Right O ! * 
 But I chips in straight, and I says ' Oh no ! 
 
 'E's a missis and kids — take me/ 
 
 " And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, 
 And the oozy corpses was all about, 
 And I felt so scared I wanted to shout. 
 And me skin fair prickled wiv fear ; 
 And I sez : ' You coward ! You 'ad no right 
 To take on the job of a man this night,' 
 
 [175]
 
 THE COWARD 
 
 Yet still I went creepin' till ('orrid sight!) 
 The trench of the 'Uns was near. 
 
 '' It was all so dark, it was all so still ; 
 Yet somethin' pushed me against me will ; 
 'Ow I wanted to turn ! Yet I crawled until 
 
 I was seein' a dim light shine. 
 Then thinks I : * I'll just go a little bit, 
 And see wot the doose I can make of it,' 
 And it seemed to come from the mouth of a 
 pit: 
 
 * Christmas ! ' sez I, * a mine.' 
 
 " Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain : 
 
 I wanted to make for 'ome again, 
 
 But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, 
 
 So I crawled to the trench instead; 
 Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, 
 And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gim. 
 And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one, 
 
 And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead. 
 
 " Then all the 'Uns that was underground, 
 Comes up with a rush and on with a bound, 
 And I swings that giddy old Maxim round 
 And belts 'em solid and square. 
 ['76]
 
 THE COWARD 
 
 You see I was off me chump wiv fear : 
 ' If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, * it's dear.' 
 And the trench was narrow and they was 
 near, 
 So I peppered the brutes for fair. 
 
 *' So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled with fright, 
 And the boys attacked and we ad a fight, 
 And we ' captured a section o' trench ' that 
 night 
 
 Which we didn't expect to get ; 
 And they found me there with me ]\Iaxim 
 
 gun, 
 And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one, 
 And I fainted away when the thing was done, 
 
 And I 'aven't got over it yet." 
 
 So that's the 'istory Bill told me. 
 Of course it's all on the strict Q.T. ; 
 It wouldn't do to get out, you see, 
 
 As 'e hacted against 'is will. 
 But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, 
 And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight — 
 Say ! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? 
 
 Wot's the matter with Bill !
 
 MISSIS MORIARTVS BOY 
 
 MISSIS MORIARTY'S BOY 
 
 Missis Moriarty called last week, and says 
 
 she to me, says she: 
 " Sure the heart of me's broken entirely 
 
 now — it's the fortunate woman you are ; 
 You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your 
 
 home, but me Patsy boy where is he ? 
 Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weari- 
 ful wahr. 
 Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him 
 
 last, wid his hair all curly and bright, 
 And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, 
 
 and his eyes as he wint away, 
 Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the 
 
 pride of his proper height : 
 Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live 
 
 till me dyin' day." 
 
 And just as she spoke these very same words 
 me Dinnis came in at the door. 
 
 Came in from McGonigle's ould shcl:)een, 
 came in from drinkin' his pay ; 
 
 [178]
 
 MISSIS MORIARTY'S BOY 
 
 And ^lissis Moriarty looked at him, ;^,nd she 
 
 didn't say anny more, 
 But she wrapped her head ^'n hei ould black 
 
 shawl, and she quietly wint away. 
 And what was I thinkin' ; I ask ye now, as 1 
 
 put me Dinnis to bed, 
 Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half o' the 
 
 night, as cold by his side I sat ; 
 Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she 
 
 was wid her Patsy slaughtered and 
 
 dead? 
 Was I weepin' for Missis ^loriarty? I'm not 
 
 so sure about that. 
 
 Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look 
 
 on her face ; 
 Wid her grey hair under her ould black 
 
 shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild ; 
 Some say she's a little bit off her head; but 
 
 annyway it's the case 
 Her temper's so swate that you nivver 
 
 would tell she'd be losin' her only 
 
 child. 
 
 [179]
 
 MISSIS MORIARTY'S BOY 
 
 And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me 
 
 Dinnis to come home blind, 
 And I'm hearin' his stumbHn' foot on the 
 
 stair along about half-past three : 
 Sure, there's many a way of breakin' a heart, 
 
 and I haven't made up me mind — 
 Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Mo- 
 
 riarty me? 
 
 [i8o]
 
 MY FOE 
 
 MY FOE 
 
 A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks: — 
 
 Gurr! You cochon! Stand and fight! 
 Show your mettle ! Snarl and bite ! 
 Spawn of an accursed race, 
 Turn and meet me face to face ! 
 Here amid the wreck and rout 
 Let us grip and have it out ! 
 Here where ruins rock and reel 
 Let us settle, steel to steel. 
 Look ! Our houses, how they spit 
 Sparks from brands your friends have lit. 
 See ! Our gutters running red, 
 Bright with blood your friends have shed. 
 Hark ! Amid your drunken brawl 
 How our maidens shriek and call. 
 Why have you come here alone, 
 To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? 
 Come to ravish, come to loot, 
 Come to play the ghoulish brute. 
 [i8i]
 
 MY FOE 
 
 Ah, indeed ! We well are met, 
 Bayonet to bayonet. 
 God! I never killed a man: 
 Now I'll do the best I can. 
 Rip you to the evil heart, 
 Laugh to see the life-blood start. 
 Bah ! You swine ! I hate you so. 
 Show you mercy ? No ! . . . and no ! 
 
 There ! I've done it. See ! He lies 
 Death a-staring from his eyes ; 
 Glazing eyeballs, panting breath. 
 How it's horrible, is Death ! 
 Plucking at his bloody lips 
 With his trembling finger-tips : 
 Choking in a dreadful way 
 As if he would something say 
 In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . 
 Oh, how horrible Death is ! 
 
 How I wish that he would die ! 
 So unnerved, unmanned am I. 
 See ! His twitching face is white ! 
 See ! His bubbling blood is bright. 
 
 [.82]
 
 MY FOE 
 
 Why do I not shout with glee ? 
 What strange spell is over me ? 
 There he lies ; the fight was fair ; 
 Let me toss my cap in air. 
 Why am I so silent? Why 
 Do I pray for him to die ? 
 W'here is all my vengeful joy? 
 Ugh ! My foe is hut a hoy. 
 
 I'd a brother of his age 
 Perished in the war's red rage; 
 Perished in the Ypres hell ; 
 Oh, I loved my brother well. 
 And though I be hard and grim, 
 How it makes me think of him ! 
 He had just such flaxen hair 
 As the lad that's lying there. 
 Just such frank blue eyes were his. 
 God ! How horrible war is ! 
 
 I have reason to be gay : 
 There is one less foe to slay. 
 I have reason to be glad : 
 Yet — mv foe is such a lad. 
 
 [183]
 
 MY FOE 
 
 So I watch in dull amaze, 
 
 See his dying eyes a-glaze, 
 
 See his face grow glorified, 
 
 See his hands outstretched and wide 
 
 To that bit of ruined wall 
 
 Where the flames have ceased to crawl. 
 
 Where amid the crumbling bricks 
 
 Hangs a blackened crucifix. 
 
 Now, oh now I understand. 
 Quick I press it in his hand. 
 Close his feeble finger-tips, 
 Hold it to his faltering lips. 
 As I watch his welling blood 
 I would stem it if I could. 
 God of Pity, let him live ! 
 God of Love, forgive, forgive. 
 
 'T* 'K 'j^ 't^ ^ I^C 
 
 His face looked strangely, as he died. 
 
 Like that of One they crucified. 
 
 And in the pocket of his coat 
 
 I found a letter ; thus he wrote : 
 
 The things I've seen! Oh mother, dear, 
 
 I'm ivondering can God he here? 
 
 [184]
 
 MY FOE 
 
 To-night amid the drunken brawl 
 I saw a Cross hung on a wall; 
 I'll seek it out, and there alone 
 Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . . 
 
 Ah no ! 'Tis I who must atone. 
 No other saw but God alone; 
 Yet how can I forget the sight 
 Of that face so woeful white? 
 Dead I kissed him as he lay, 
 Knelt by him and tried to pray; 
 Left him lying there at rest, 
 Crucifix upon his breast. 
 
 Not for him the pity be. 
 Ye who pity, pity me, 
 Crawling now the ways I trod, 
 Blood-guilty in sight of God. 
 
 [I8S]
 
 MY JOB 
 
 MY JOB 
 
 I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' 
 
 nigh ; 
 At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to 
 
 go and do it ; 
 I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' 
 
 to the eye, 
 And I 'opes the God of soldier men '11 see me 
 
 safely through it. 
 Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never 
 
 done before ; 
 And till you 'as experience noo stunts is 
 
 always tryin' ; 
 The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any 
 
 more: 
 At seven by the Captain's watch my little job 
 
 is . . . dyin\ 
 
 I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin 
 
 it now. 
 J ain't much good at writin' notes, but here 
 
 goes : " Dearest Mother, 
 [186]
 
 MY JOB 
 
 I've been in many 'ot old ' do's ' ; I've scraped 
 
 through safe some'ow, 
 But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' 
 
 another. 
 A little job of hand-grenades; they called for 
 
 volunteers. 
 They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it 
 
 seems a trifle dicky. 
 If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't 
 
 no call for tears, 
 And so ... I 'opes this finds you well, Your 
 
 werry lovin' Micky." 
 
 I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine, 
 
 out there. 
 I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite 
 
 upset me. 
 I've seen so much of bloody death I don't 
 
 seem for to care, 
 If I can only even up, how soon the blighters 
 
 get me. 
 I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in 
 
 a bed ; 
 I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger- 
 
 longer-lyin' ; 
 
 [187]
 
 MY JOB 
 
 I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to 
 
 make instead . . . 
 It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals ! . . . 
 
 a decent job in dyin'. 
 
 [i88]
 
 THE SONG OF THE PACIFIST 
 
 THE SONG OF THE 
 PACIFIST 
 
 What do they matter, our headlong hates, 
 when we take the toll of our Dead? 
 
 Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the 
 torrent of blood we have shed? 
 
 By the cheers of our Victory will the heart 
 of the mother be comforted? 
 
 If by the \'ictory all we mean is a broken and 
 
 brooding foe ; 
 Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, 
 
 and a truce for an age or so : 
 By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we 
 
 have smitten a bootless blow ! 
 
 If by the Triumph we only prove that the 
 
 sword we sheathe is bright ; 
 That justice and truth and love endure ; that 
 
 freedom's throned on the height ; 
 
 [189]
 
 THE SONG OF THE PACIFIST 
 
 That the feebler folks shall be unafraid ; that 
 JMight shall never be Right; 
 
 If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, 
 by the havoc of fire and fear, 
 
 By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by 
 the Dead so doubly dear, . . . 
 
 Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it 
 mocks us as we cheer. 
 
 \^ictory ! there can be but one, hallowed in 
 
 every land : 
 When by the graves of our common dead we 
 
 who were f ocmen stand ; 
 And in the hush of our common grief hand 
 
 is tendered to hand. 
 
 Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the 
 
 splendour of their release 
 The spirits of those who fell go forth and 
 
 they hallow our hearts to peace, 
 And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, 
 
 we clamour that War shall cease. 
 [190]
 
 THE SONG OF THE PACIFIST 
 
 Glory ! Aye, when from blackest loss shall 
 
 be born most radiant gain ; 
 When over the gory fields shall rise a star 
 
 that never shall wane : 
 Then, and then only, our Dead shall know 
 
 that they have not fall'n in vain. 
 
 When our children's children shall talk of 
 War as a madness that may not be ; 
 
 When we thank our God for our grief to-day, 
 and blazon from sea to sea 
 
 In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace 
 . . . that will be Victory, 
 
 [191]
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 There were two brothers, John and James, 
 And w^hen the town went up in flames, 
 To save the house of James dashed John, 
 Then turned, and lo ! his own was gone. 
 
 And when the great World War began. 
 To volunteer John promptly ran ; 
 And while he learned live bombs to lob, 
 James stayed at home and — sneaked his job. 
 
 John came home with a missing limb ; 
 
 That didn't seem to worry him ; 
 
 But oh, it set his brain awhirl 
 
 To find that James had — sneaked his girl ! 
 
 Time passed. John tried his grief to drown ; 
 To-day James owns one-half the town; 
 His army contracts riches yield ; 
 And John? Well, search the Potter's Field. 
 [192]
 
 THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER-BORN 
 
 THE SONG OF THE 
 SOLDIER-BORN 
 
 Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak 
 defiant; 
 
 Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout 
 of a giant; 
 
 Night and a trail unknown and a heart re- 
 liant. 
 
 Give me to live and love in the old, bold 
 fashion ; 
 
 A soldier's billet at night, and a soldier's ra- 
 tion ; 
 
 A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's 
 passion. 
 
 For I hold as a simple faith there's no deny- 
 ing: 
 
 The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth 
 plying; 
 
 [^93]
 
 THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER-BORN 
 
 The death of a soldier's the only death worth 
 dying. 
 
 So let me go and leave you safely behind 
 
 me; 
 Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing 
 
 shall bind me ; 
 Go till the word is War — and then you will 
 
 find me. 
 
 Then you will call me and claim me because 
 you will need me ; 
 
 Cheer me and gird me and into the battle- 
 wrath speed me. . . . 
 
 And when it's over, spurn me and no longer 
 heed me. 
 
 For guile and a purse gold-greased are the 
 
 arms you carry ; 
 With deeds of paper you fight and with pens 
 
 you parry; 
 You call on the hounds of the law your foes 
 
 to harry. 
 
 [194]
 
 THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER-BORN 
 
 You with your " Art for its own sake," pos- 
 ing and prinking; 
 
 You with your " Live and be merry," eating 
 and drinking; 
 
 You with your " Peace at all hazard," from 
 bright blood shrinking. 
 
 Fools ! I will tell you now : though the red 
 
 rain patters, 
 And a million of men go down, it's little it 
 
 matters. . . . 
 There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though 
 
 it streams in tatters. 
 
 There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn 
 and to cry for ; 
 
 There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suf- 
 fer and sigh for ; 
 
 There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to 
 martyr and die for. 
 
 Ah no ! it's my dream that War will never be 
 ended ; 
 
 [195]
 
 THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER-BORN 
 
 That men will perish like men, and valour be 
 
 splendid ; 
 That the Flag by the sword will be served, 
 
 and honour defended. 
 
 That the tale of my fights will never be an- 
 cient story ; 
 
 That though my eye may be dim and my 
 beard be hoary, 
 
 I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of 
 Glory. 
 
 So give me a strong right arm for a zvrong's 
 
 szvift righting; 
 Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is 
 
 smiting; 
 Death in my hoots may-he, hut -fighting, 
 
 fighting. 
 
 [1961
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 As I was saying . . . (Xo, thank you; I 
 
 never take cream with my tea ; 
 Cows weren't allowed in the trenches — got 
 
 out of the habit, y'see.) 
 As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like 
 
 a youngster of ten : 
 " Come on, lads ! " he shouts, '' and we'll 
 
 show 'em." And he sprang to the head 
 
 of the men. 
 Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and 
 
 he fell on his face with a slam. . . . 
 Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the 
 
 last word he uttered was " Damn ! " 
 And hang it ! I loved the old fellow, and 
 
 something just burst in my brain. 
 And I cared no more for the bullets than I 
 
 would for a shower of rain. 
 'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this 
 
 is jolly nice tea) ; 
 I felt as if something had broken ; by gad ! 
 
 I was suddenly free. 
 
 [197]
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 Free for a glorified moment, beyond regula- 
 tions and laws, 
 Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap 
 
 of the Stone Age was. 
 So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker 
 
 rage of my own, 
 And though all my chaps were behind me, 
 
 feeling most f rightf 'ly alone ; 
 With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and 
 
 the " krock " and the swish of the shrap ; 
 And I found myself humming " Ben Bolt '* 
 
 . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old 
 
 chap? 
 Two lumps, please). . . . What was I say- 
 ing? Oh yes, the jolly old dash; 
 We simply ripped through the barrage, and 
 
 on with a roar and a crash. 
 My fellows, Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, 
 
 on they went with a yell. 
 Till they tripped on the Boches' sandbags — 
 
 nothing much left to tell : 
 A trench so tattered and battered that even 
 
 a rat couldn't live ; 
 Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you 
 
 could pass through a sieve. 
 
 [198]
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us 
 
 out of our show, 
 And my fellows were simply yearning for a 
 
 red mix-up with the foe. 
 So I shouted to them to follow, and on we 
 
 went roaring again, 
 Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden 
 
 rain. 
 Then all at once a machine gun barks from a 
 
 bit of a bank, 
 And our Major roars in a fury : ** We've got 
 
 to take it on flank." 
 He was running like fire to lead us, when 
 
 down like a stone he comes, 
 As full of " typewriter " bullets as a pudding 
 
 is full of plums. 
 So I took his job and we got 'em. ... By 
 
 gad ! we got 'em like rats ; 
 Down in a deep, shell crater we fought like 
 
 Kilkenny cats. 
 'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be shel- 
 tered and out of range. 
 With someone you sazv to go for — it made 
 
 an agreeable change. 
 
 [199]
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 And the Bodies that missed my bullets, my 
 
 chaps gave a bayonet jolt, 
 And all the time, I remember, I whistled and 
 
 hummed " Ben Bolt." 
 
 Well, that little job was over, so hell-for- 
 
 leather we ran, 
 On to the second line trenches — that's where 
 
 the fun began. 
 For though we had strafed 'em like fury, 
 
 there still were some Boches about, 
 And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, 
 
 like terriers routed 'em out. 
 Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and 
 
 I shouted: *' Is anyone there?" 
 And a voice, " Yes, one ; but I'm wounded," 
 
 came faint up the narrow stair ; 
 And my man was descending before me, when 
 
 sudden a cry ! a shot ! 
 (I say, this cake is delicious. You make it 
 
 yourself, do you not?) 
 My man ? Oh, they killed the poor devil ; for 
 
 if there was one there was ten; 
 So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went 
 
 down at the head of my men ; 
 [200]
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, 
 but we cornered the rotters all right ; 
 
 I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that 
 bit of the fight. 
 
 But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of 
 pleasanter things ; 
 
 The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridicu- 
 lous fluffy things, 
 
 So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! 
 Well, if I must, I must. 
 
 We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb 
 and bayonet thrust ; 
 
 And on we went to the third one, quite cal- 
 loused to crumping by now ; 
 
 And some of our fellows who'd passed us 
 were making a deuce of a row ; 
 
 And my chaps — well, I just couldn't hold 
 'em. (It's strange how it is with gore; 
 
 In some ways it's just like whisky: if you 
 taste it you must have more.) 
 
 Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by 
 gad, sir! they couldn't be calmed, 
 
 So I headed them bang for the bomb-belt, rac- 
 
 ing like billy-be-damned. 
 
 [201]
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those 
 
 who arrived at all ; 
 The machine guns were certainly chronic, 
 
 the shindy enough to appal. 
 Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on 
 
 the chest and the head. 
 And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my 
 
 face hlood-gummy and red. 
 I'm thinking I looked like a madman ; I fancy 
 
 I felt one too. 
 Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God ! 
 
 what a glorious '' do." 
 As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my 
 
 afternoon tea, 
 I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's 
 
 hard to believe that it's me ; 
 I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smash- 
 ing out left and right. 
 And humming " Ben Bolt " rather loudly, 
 
 and hugely enjoying the fight. 
 And as for my men, may God bless 'em ! 
 
 I've loved 'em ever since then : 
 They fought like the shining angels; they're 
 
 the pick o' the land, my men. 
 
 [202]
 
 AFTERNOON TEA 
 
 And the trench was a reeking shambles, not 
 
 a Boche to be seen alive — 
 So I thought; but on rounding a traverse 
 
 I came on a covey of five ; 
 And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but 
 
 the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game. 
 And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came 
 
 at me just the same. 
 A sporty thing that, I tell you ; I just couldn't 
 
 blow him to hell. 
 So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and 
 
 down like a ninepin he fell. 
 And then when Fd brought him to reason, 
 
 he wasn't half bad, that Hun ; 
 He bandaged my head and my short-rib as 
 
 well as the Doc could have done. 
 So I went back with my Boches, as gay as a 
 
 two-year-old colt. 
 And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I 
 
 still was a-humming '' Ben Bolt.'' 
 And now, by Jove ! how I've bored you. 
 
 You've just let me babble away; 
 Let's talk of the things that matter — your 
 
 car or the newest play. . . . 
 
 [203]
 
 THE MOURNERS 
 
 THE MOURNERS 
 
 I look into the aching womb of night ; 
 I look across the mist that masks the dead; 
 The moon is tired and gives but little light, 
 The stars have gone to bed. 
 
 The earth is sick and seems to breathe with 
 
 pain ; 
 A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree ; 
 I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, 
 The dead I do not see. 
 
 The slain I ivoiild not see . . . and so I lift 
 My eyes from out the shambles where they 
 
 lie; 
 When lo! a million woman-faces drift 
 Like pale leaves through the sky. 
 
 The cheeks of some are channelled deep with 
 tears ; 
 
 [204]
 
 THE MOURNERS 
 
 But some are tearless, with wild eyes that 
 
 stare 
 Into the shadow of the coming years 
 Of fathomless despair. 
 
 And some are young, and some are very old ; 
 And some are rich, some poor beyond belief ; 
 Yet all are strangely like, set in the mould 
 Of everlasting grief. 
 
 They fill the vast of Heaven, face on face ; 
 And then I see one weeping w'ith the rest, 
 Whose eyes beseech me for a moment's 
 space. . . . 
 Oh eyes I love the best ! 
 
 Nay, I but dream. The sky is all forlorn, 
 And there's the plain of battle writhing red : 
 God pity them, the women-folk who mourn ! 
 How happy are the dead! 
 
 [305]
 
 VENVOl 
 
 L'ENFOI 
 
 My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and 
 
 ready, 
 My word-battalions marching verse by verse; 
 Here stanza-companies are none too steady; 
 There print- platoons are zvcak, but might be 
 
 worse. 
 And as in marshalled order I reznezv them, 
 My type-brigades, imf earful of the fray, 
 My eyes that seek their faults are seeing 
 
 through them 
 Imm,ortal visions of an epic day. 
 
 It seems I'm in a giant bozvling-alley ; 
 
 The hidden heaz'ies round me crash and 
 thud; 
 
 A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley; 
 
 The rising sun is like a ball of blood. 
 
 Along the road the fantassins are pouring. 
 
 And some are gay as fire, and some steel- 
 stern, ... 
 
 [206]
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Then hack again I see the red tide pouring, 
 Along the reeking road from Hebiiterne. 
 
 And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven, 
 The Hun lines grey and peacefid in my sight ; 
 When suddenly the rosy air is riven — 
 A "coal-box " blots the " boyou " on my right. 
 Or else to evil Car no y I am stealing, 
 Past sentinels who hail unth bated breath; 
 Where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing 
 May hint our mission in that zone of death. 
 
 I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadoivs 
 
 The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle; 
 
 Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shad- 
 ozvs, 
 
 And ThiepvaVs chateau empty as a shell. 
 
 Dozen Albert's riven streets the moon is leer- 
 ing; 
 
 The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray; 
 
 And all the road from Hamcl I am hearing 
 
 The silver rage of bugles over Bray. 
 [207]
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Once more within the sky's deep sapphire 
 
 hollow 
 I sight a sivimming Tanhc, a fairy thing ; 
 I watch the angry shell Hame flash and follozv 
 In feather puffs that flick a tilted zuing; 
 And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror s 
 
 flashing; 
 The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; 
 The batteries are rancoronsly crashing, 
 And life is just as full as it can hold. 
 
 Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving! 
 Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! 
 Let lis be glad ive lived you, still believing 
 The God zAio gave the cannon gave the Cross. 
 Let us be sure amid these seething passions, 
 The lusts of blood and hate our souls ab- 
 hor: 
 The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions 
 Smites fiercest in the zvrath-red forge of 
 
 War. . . . 
 Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell 
 Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is zvell. 
 
 [208]
 
 "•*. 
 
 «> 1ft«
 
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