THE TT 
 BOMBER 
 GIPSY* 1 
 
 BY T ^T 
 APHERBERT
 
 
 
 ,-l> I 3 I 
 
 ' 
 
 VT-
 
 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE SECRET BATTLE
 
 THE 
 BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 A, P. HERBERT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF 
 
 1920
 
 Stack 
 Annex 
 
 601$ 
 
 THIRTY-FOUR of these pieces have already 
 appeared in Punch, and I am indebted to the 
 proprietors of that paper for their courtesy in 
 permitting me to reprint them. " After the 
 Battle " appeared in The New Statesman, and 
 " The Atrocity " in Queen Alexandra's Hospital 
 Magazine. 
 
 A. P. H. 
 
 June, 1919 
 
 2003905
 
 TO MY WIFE 
 
 AND TO ALL THE WIVES 
 
 WHO HAVE WAITED AND WONDERED 
 
 BUT ESPECIALLY 
 TO THE WIVES OF THE R.N.D. 
 
 vi.
 
 You may not ride through magic regions 
 
 With fifty score companions near, 
 Or know the hope that lives in legions, 
 
 The fellowship that laughs at fear, 
 Or songs at sunset in the lovely haven 
 
 When with great cheers the teeming ships 
 
 set out 
 Only the loneliness that makes men craven, 
 
 The silent furniture the chill, dumb doubt. 
 
 But the swords flash, the cannon thunder 
 
 Full oft in your imaginings : 
 For you each night your man goes under, 
 
 And cursed is the strife of Kings. 
 When lone winds wail, and cruel windows 
 
 rattle, 
 And empty chairs sit mocking round the 
 
 fire, 
 
 Too oft, I know, you sit and dream of battle, 
 Of blood and wounds and dead men on the 
 wire.
 
 viii. THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 And when far back in warm green levels 
 
 He lies with all the restful host, 
 With dance and jest and midnight revels, 
 
 And Home is but a tavern toast, 
 For you the wind still howls about the sashes, 
 
 For you the regiments are relieved in vain : 
 You see no singers in the ruthless ashes, 
 
 Only the wet, the weariness, the pain. 
 
 Yet may you in this jester's pages 
 
 Be sure the battle sometimes ends, 
 Nor only death the soldier's wages. 
 
 But there are farms and laughing friends, 
 And wine and wonders and delicious leisures, 
 
 And dreaming villages where children dwell 
 And if, mayhap, you cannot catch the pleasures, 
 
 Believe, at least, it is not always Hell.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BOMBER GIPSY i 
 
 BALLADE OF INCIPIENT LUNACY . . . 4 
 
 THE REST-RUMOUR . . . . . 7 
 
 A LOST LEADER . . . . . .10 
 
 THE INCORRIGIBLES ..... 12 
 
 AT THE DUMP ...... 15 
 
 THE BATTLE OF GODSON'S BEARD . . .18 
 AFTER THE BATTLE . . . . .21 
 
 OPEN WARFARE ...... 23 
 
 BSAUCOURT REVISITED .... 26 
 
 THE INVESTITURE ...... 29 
 
 THE ATROCITY ...... 32 
 
 THE BALLAD OF JONES'S BLIGHTY . . 34 
 
 THE TRENCH CODE ..... 36 
 
 THE HUMILIATION OF THE PALFREY . . 38 
 
 "THE CHAIN OF RESPONSIBILITY" . . 41 
 
 To THE REGIMENT ..... 43 
 
 ZERO ........ 47 
 
 THE MISCHIEF-MAKERS ..... 50 
 
 ix.
 
 x. THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 PACK 
 
 THE ROMANCERS *> . . . 53 
 
 " AT DAWN " ...... 55 
 
 PATROLS . . . . . -57 
 
 THE DESERTERS . . . . . .61 
 
 FREE MEALS . . . . . .64 
 
 THE WAR-DREAM 66 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE COD'S HEAD . . 68 
 
 THE HELLES HOTEL . . . 71 
 
 DEAD-MULE TREE : A SONG OF WISDOM . 73 
 THE COOKERS : A SONG OF THE TRANSPORT . 75 
 THE GERMAN GRAVES . . . . 4 . 77 
 THE WINDMILL : A SONG OF VICTORY . . 79 
 THE GREEN ESTAMINET . . . .81 
 
 COUVRONS 83 
 
 MORAL ........ 85 
 
 THE TIDE. To THE ROYAL NAVAL DIVISION . 87 
 THE VOYAGE OF H.M.S. " PRESIDENT." A 
 
 DREAM 89 
 
 STORIES FOR CIVILIANS : THE FLY ... 93 
 A SONG OF PLENTY ..... 96 
 FATE : A SONG OF WISDOM ... 98
 
 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS
 
 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 COME, let me tell the oft-told tale again 
 
 Of that strange Tyneside grenadier we had, 
 Whom none could quell or decently constrain, 
 
 For he was turbulent and sometimes bad ; 
 Yet, stout of heart, he dearly loved to fight, 
 And spoke his fellows on a gusty night 
 In some high barn, where, huddled in the 
 straw, 
 
 They watched the cheap wicks gutter on 
 
 the shelf, 
 How he was irked with discipline and law, 
 
 And would fare forth to battle by himself. 
 
 This said, he left them and returned no more ; 
 
 But whispers passed from Vimy to Verdun, 
 Where'er the fields ran thickliest with gore, 
 
 Of some stray bomber that belonged to 
 
 none, 
 
 But none more fierce or flung a fairer bomb, 
 Who ran unscathed the gamut of the Somme,
 
 2 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 And followed Freyberg up the Beaucourt mile, 
 With uncouth cries and streaming muddy 
 
 hair ; 
 But after, when they sought his name and 
 
 style 
 
 And would have honoured him he was 
 not there. 
 
 For most he loved to lie upon Lorette 
 And, couched on cornflowers, gaze across 
 
 the lines 
 
 At Vimy's heights we had not Vimy yet 
 Pale Souchez's bones and Lens among the 
 
 mines, 
 
 The tall pit-towers and dusky heaps of slag, 
 Until, like eagles on the mountain-crag 
 By strangers stirred, with hoarse, indignant 
 
 shrieks 
 Gunners emerged from some deep-delved 
 
 lair 
 
 To chase the intruder from their sacred peaks 
 And cast him down to Ablain St. Nazaire. 
 
 And rumour said he roamed the rearward 
 
 ways 
 
 In quiet seasons when no battle brewed ; 
 The transport, homing through the evening 
 
 haze, 
 
 Had seen and carried him, and given him 
 food;
 
 THE BOMBER GIPSY 3 
 
 And he would leave them at Bethune canteen, 
 Or some hot drinking-house at Nceux-les- 
 
 Mines, 
 Where he would sit with wine and eggs and 
 
 bread 
 
 Till the swart minions of the A.P.M. 
 Stole in and called for him, but found him 
 
 fled 
 Out at the back. He was too much for them. 
 
 Too much. And surely thou shalt e'er be so ; 
 No hungry discipline shall starve thy soul ; 
 Shalt freely foot it where the poppies blow, 
 Shalt fight unfettered when the cannon 
 
 roll, 
 And haply, Wanderer, when the hosts go 
 
 home, 
 
 Thou only still in Aveluy shalt roam, 
 Shalt haunt the crumbled Windmill at Gavrelle 
 
 And fling thy bombs across the silent lea, 
 Drink with shy peasants at St. Catherine's 
 
 Well, 
 And in the dusk go home with them to tea.
 
 BALLADE OF INCIPIENT LUNACY 
 
 Scone. A Battalion " Orderly " Room in 
 France during a period of " Rest." Runners 
 arrive breathlessly from all directions bearing 
 illegible chits, and tear off in the same direc- 
 tions with illegible answers or no answers 
 at all. Motor-bicycles snort up to the door, 
 and arrogant despatch-riders enter with 
 enormous envelopes containing leagues of 
 correspondence, orders, minutes, circulars, 
 maps, signals, lists, schedules, summaries, 
 and all sorts. The tables are stacked with 
 papers ; the floor is littered with papers ; 
 papers fly through the ah-. Two typewriters 
 click with maddening insistence in a corner. 
 A signaller " buzzes " tenaciously at the 
 telephone, talking in a strange language, 
 apparently to himself, as he never seems to 
 be connected with anyone else. A stream 
 of miscellaneous persons quartermasters, 
 chaplains, generals, batmen, D.A.D.O.S.'s, 
 sergeant-majors, staff officers, buglers, Maires, 
 
 4
 
 BALLADE OF INCIPIENT LUNACY 5 
 
 officers just arriving, officers just going away, 
 gas experts, bombing experts, interpreters, 
 doctors drifts in, wastes time, and drifts 
 out again. 
 
 Clerks scribble ceaselessly, rolls and nominal 
 rolls, nominal lists and lists. By the time 
 they have finished one list it is long out of 
 date. Then they start the next. Every- 
 thing happens at the same time ; nobody 
 has time to finish a sentence. Only a military 
 mind, with a very limited descriptive vocabu- 
 lary and a chronic habit of self-deception, 
 would call the place orderly. 
 
 The Adjutant speaks, hoarsely ; while he 
 speaks he writes, about something quite 
 different. In the middle of each sentence 
 his pipe goes out ; at the end of each sentence 
 he lights a match. He may or may not light 
 his pipe ; anyhow he speaks : 
 
 " WHERE is that list of Wesleyans I made ? 
 
 And what are all those people on the 
 
 stair? 
 Is that my pencil ? Well, they can't be paid. 
 
 Tell the Marines we have no forms to 
 spare. 
 
 I cannot get these Ration States to square. 
 The Brigadier is coming round, they say. 
 
 The Colonel wants a man to cut his hair. 
 I think I must be going mad to-day.
 
 6 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 " These silly questions ! I shall tell Brigade 
 
 This Office is now closing for repair. 
 They want to know what Mr. Johnstone 
 weighed, 
 
 And if the Armourer is dark or fair ? 
 
 I do not know ; I cannot say I care. 
 Tell that Interpreter to go away. 
 
 Where is my signal-pad ? I left it there. 
 I think I must be going mad to-day. 
 
 "Perhaps I should appear upon parade. 
 Where is my pencil ? Ring up Captain 
 
 Aire ; 
 
 Say I regret our tools have been mislaid. 
 These companies would make Sir Douglas 
 
 swear. 
 'A' is the worst. Oh, damn, is this the 
 
 Maire ? 
 I'm sorry, Monsieur je suis desole 
 
 But no one's pinched your miserable chair. 
 I think I must be going mad to-day." 
 
 ENVOI 
 
 " Prince, I perceive what Cain's temptations 
 
 were, 
 
 And how attractive it must be to slay. 
 O Lord, the General ! This is hard to bear. 
 I think I must be going mad to-day."
 
 THE REST-RUMOUR 
 
 I KNOW not in what rodent- haunted caverns, 
 By what rough tongues the tale was first 
 
 expressed, 
 
 By choking fires or in the whispering taverns, 
 With wine and omelette lovingly caressed; 
 Or what tired soul, o'erladen with a 
 
 lump 
 Of bombs and bags which some one had 
 
 to hump, 
 Flung down his load indignant at the 
 
 Dump, 
 
 And, cursing, cried, " It's time we had 
 a rest ! " 
 
 And so, maybe, began it. Some sly runner, 
 
 Half-hearing, half-imagining, no doubt, 
 Caught up the word and gave it to a gunner, 
 And, he embroidering, 'twas noised about 
 From lip to lip in many a trench's press, 
 Where working-parties struggled to pro- 
 gress 
 
 Or else go back, but both without success, 
 " Officer says Division's going out" 
 7
 
 8 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 It found the Front. It came up with the 
 
 rations ; 
 
 The Corporals carried it from hole to hole ; 
 And scouts behaved in strange polemic 
 
 fashions 
 On what they thought would be their last 
 
 patrol ; 
 While Fritz, of course, from whom few 
 
 things are hid, 
 
 Had the romance as soon as any did, 
 And said, thank William, he would soon 
 
 be rid 
 Of yon condemned disturbers of his soul. 
 
 Nor were there few confirming little trifles, 
 For James, rejoining from the Base, had 
 
 scann'd 
 Strange waiting infantry, with brand-new 
 
 rifles, 
 
 In backward areas, but close at hand ; 
 And some had marked the D.A.Q.M.G. 
 Approaching Railhead in the dusk, and he 
 (Who, as a fact, was simply on the 
 
 spree) 
 
 Had gone, of course, to view the Promised 
 Land. 
 
 And what a land ! Who had not heard its 
 
 promise ? 
 
 A land of quietude and no grenades, 
 Soft beds for officers, fair barns for Tommies,
 
 THE REST-RUMOUR 9 
 
 And rich estaminets and gracious maids, 
 And half an hour from Abbeville by the 
 
 train, 
 
 A land of rivulets and golden grain 
 (Where it would be impossible to train 
 
 And even difficult to have parades) ! 
 
 Then it appeared the groom of General 
 
 Harrison 
 
 Had news denied to ordinary men, 
 How the Brigade was going home to garrison 
 A restful corner of the Lincoln fen ; 
 
 But weeks have passed, and we are as we 
 
 were ; 
 
 And possibly, when Peace is in the air 
 And these dear myths have died of sheer 
 
 despair, 
 
 They may come true but not, I think, 
 till then.
 
 A LOST LEADER 
 
 Or, Thoughts on Trek 
 
 THE men are marching like the best ; 
 
 The waggons wind across the lea ; 
 At ten to two we have a rest, 
 
 We have a rest at ten to three ; 
 
 I ride ahead upon my gee 
 And try to look serene and gay ; 
 
 The whole battalion follows me, 
 And I believe I've lost the way. 
 
 Full many a high-class thoroughfare 
 
 My erring map does not disclose, 
 \Vhile roads that are not really there 
 
 The same elaborately shows ; 
 
 And whether this is one of those 
 It needs a clever man to say ; 
 
 I am not clever, I suppose, 
 And I believe I've lost the way. 
 
 The soldiers sing about their beer ; 
 
 The wretched road goes on and on ; 
 There ought to be a turning here, 
 
 But if there was the thing has gone ; 
 
 10
 
 A LOST LEADER it 
 
 Like some depressed automaton 
 I ask at each estaminet ; 
 
 They say, "Tout droit" and I say "Bon," 
 But I believe Pve lost the way. 
 
 I dare not tell the trustful men ; 
 
 They think me wonderful and wise ; 
 But where will be the legend when 
 
 They get a shock of such a size ? 
 
 And what about our brave Allies ? 
 They wanted us to fight to-day ; 
 
 We were to be a big surprise 
 A nd I believe I've lost the way.
 
 THE INCORRIGIBLES 
 
 How an exasperated Adjutant would LIKE to 
 address the New Guard 
 
 " GUARD ! for I still concede to you the 
 
 title, 
 
 Though well I know that it is not your due, 
 Being devoid of everything most vital 
 
 To the high charge which is imposed on 
 
 you; 
 Listen awhile and, Number Two, be dumb ; 
 
 Forbear to scratch the irritable tress ; 
 No longer masticate the furtive gum ; 
 And, Private Pitt, stop nibbling at your 
 
 thumb, 
 But for a change attend to my address. 
 
 " Day after day I urge the old, old thesis 
 To reverence well the man of martial note, 
 
 Nor treat as mere sartorial caprices 
 The mystic marks he carries on his coat ; 
 
 And how to know what everybody is, 
 The swords, the crowns, the purple-stained 
 cards,
 
 THE INCORRIGIBLES 13 
 
 The Brigadiers concealed in Burberries, 
 And render all those pomps and dignities 
 
 Which are, of course, the raison d'etre of 
 guards. 
 
 " With what avail ? for never a guard is 
 
 mounted 
 That does not do some wild abhorrent 
 
 thing, 
 
 Only in hushed low tones to be recounted, 
 Lest haply hints of it should reach the 
 
 King- 
 Dark ugly tales of sentinels who drank, 
 
 Or lost their prisoners while consuming tea, 
 Or took great pains to make their minds a 
 
 blank 
 
 Whene'er approached by gentlemen of rank, 
 And, when reproved, presented arms to 
 me ! 
 
 " There is no potentate in France or Flanders 
 
 You will not heap with insult if you can. 
 For, lo ! a car. It is the Corps Commander's ; 
 
 The sentries take no notice of the man, 
 Or fix him with a not unkindly stare, 
 
 And slap their butts in an engaging way, 
 Or else, too late, in penitent despair 
 Cry, ' Guard, turn out ! ' and there is no 
 guard there, 
 
 But they are in The Blue Estaminet.
 
 i 4 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 " Weary I am of worrying and warning ; 
 
 For all my toil I get it in the neck ; 
 I am fed up with it ; and from this morning 
 
 I shall not seek to keep your crimes in 
 
 check ; 
 Sin as you will I shall but acquiesce ; 
 
 Sleep on, O sentinels I shall not curse ; 
 And so, maybe, from sheer contrariness 
 Some day a guard may be a slight success ; 
 
 At any rate you cannot well do worse."
 
 AT THE DUMP 
 
 Lines to the N.C.O. in charge 
 
 Now is the hour of dusk and mist and midges, 
 Now the tired planes drone homeward 
 
 through the haze, 
 And distant wood-fires wink behind the 
 
 ridges, 
 And the first flare some timorous Hun 
 
 betrays ; 
 Now no shell circulates, but all men brood 
 
 Over their evening food ; 
 The bats flit warily, and owl and rat 
 
 With muffled cries their shadowy loves 
 
 pursue, 
 And pleasant, Corporal, it is to chat 
 
 In this hushed moment with a man like you. 
 
 How strange a spectacle of human passions 
 
 Is yours all day beside the Arras road, 
 What mournful men concerned about their 
 
 rations 
 
 When here at eve the limbers leave their 
 load; 
 
 '5
 
 16 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 What twilight blasphemy, what horses' feet 
 
 Entangled with the meat, 
 What sudden hush when that machine-gun 
 
 sweeps, 
 
 And flat as possible for men so round 
 The Quartermasters may be seen hi heaps, 
 While you sit still and chuckle, I'll be 
 bound ! 
 
 Here all men halt awhile and tell their rumours ; 
 Here the young runners come to cull your 
 
 tales, 
 How Generals talked with you, in splendid 
 
 humours, 
 And how the Worcestershires have gone to 
 
 Wales ; 
 
 Up yonder trench each lineward regiment 
 swings, 
 
 Saying some shocking things ; 
 And here at dark sad diggers stand in hordes 
 
 Waiting the late elusive Engineer, 
 While glowing pipes illume yon notice-boards 
 That say, "No LIGHTS. You MUST NOT 
 
 LOITER HERE." 
 
 And you sit ruminant and take no action, 
 But daylong watch the aeroplanes at play. 
 
 Or contemplate with secret satisfaction 
 
 Your fellow-men proceeding towards the 
 fray.
 
 AT THE DUMP 17 
 
 Your sole solicitude when men report 
 
 There is a shovel short, 
 Or, numbering jealously your rusty store, 
 Some mouldering rocket, some wet bomb you 
 
 miss 
 
 That was reserved for some ensuing war, 
 But on no grounds to be employed in this. 
 
 For Colonels cringe to you, most firm of 
 
 warders, 
 
 For sandbags suppliant, and do no good, 
 And high Staff Officers and priests in orders 
 
 In vain beleaguer you for bits of wood, 
 While I, who have no signature nor chit, 
 
 But badly want a bit, 
 I only talk to you of these high themes, 
 
 Nor stoop to join the sycophantic choir, 
 Seeing (I trust) my wicked batman, Jeames, 
 Has meanwhile pinched enough to light my 
 fire.
 
 THE BATTLE OF GODSON'S BEARD 
 
 I'LL tell you a yarn of a sailor-man, with a 
 
 face more fierce than fair, 
 Who got round that on the Navy's plan by 
 
 hiding it all with hair ; 
 He was one of a hard old sailor-breed, and 
 
 had lived his life at sea, 
 But he took to the beach at the nation's need, 
 
 and fought with the R.N.D. 
 
 Now Brigadier-General Blank's Brigade was 
 
 tidy and neat and trim, 
 And the sight of a beard on his parade was a 
 
 bit too much for him : 
 " What is that," said he, with a frightful oath, 
 
 " of all that is wild and weird ? " 
 And the Staff replied, " A curious growth, but 
 
 it looks very like a beard." 
 
 And the General said, " I have seen six wars, 
 
 and many a ghastly sight, 
 Fellows with locks that gave one shocks, and 
 
 buttons none too bright, 
 18
 
 BATTLE OF GODSON'S BEARD 19 
 
 But never a man in my Brigade with a face 
 
 all fringed with fur ; 
 And you'll toddle away and shave to-day." 
 
 But Godson said, " You err. 
 
 " For I don't go much on wars, as such, and 
 
 living with rats and worms, 
 And you ought to be glad of a sailor lad on 
 
 any old kind of terms ; 
 While this old beard of which you're skeered, 
 
 it stands for a lot to me, 
 For the great North gales, and the sharks and 
 
 whales, and the smell of the good grey 
 
 sea." 
 
 New Generals crowded to the spot and urged 
 
 him to behave, 
 But Godson said, " You talk a lot, but can 
 
 you make me shave ? 
 For the Navy allows a beard at the bows, and 
 
 a beard is the sign for me, 
 That the world may know wherever I go, I 
 
 belong to the King's Navee." 
 
 They gave him posts in distant parts where 
 
 few might see his face, 
 Town-Major jobs that break men's hearts, 
 
 and billets at the Base ;
 
 20 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 But whenever he knew a fight was due, he 
 
 hurried there by train, 
 And when he'd done for every Hun they 
 
 sent him back again. 
 
 Then up and spake an old sailor, " It seems 
 
 you can't 'ave 'eared, 
 Begging your pardon, General Blank, the 
 
 reason of this same beard : 
 It's a kind of a sart of a camyflarge, and that 
 
 I take to mean 
 A thing as 'ides some other thing wot 
 
 oughtn't to be seen. 
 
 " And I've brought you this 'ere photergraph 
 
 of what 'e used to be 
 Before 'e stuck that fluffy muck about 'is 
 
 phyzogmy." 
 The General looked and, fainting, cried, " The 
 
 situation's grave ! 
 The beard was bad, but, KAMERAD ! he 
 
 simply must not shave ! " 
 
 And now, when the thin lines bulge and sag, 
 
 and man goes down to man, 
 A great black beard like a pirate's flag flies 
 
 ever in the van ; 
 And I've fought in many a warmish spot, 
 
 where death was the least men feared, 
 But I never knew anything quite so hot as 
 
 the Battle of Godson's Beard.
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE 
 
 So they are satisfied with our Brigade, 
 And it remains to parcel out the bays ! 
 
 And we shall have the usual Thanks Parade, 
 The beaming General, and the soapy praise. 
 
 You will come up in your capacious car 
 To find your heroes sulking in the rain, 
 
 To tell us how magnificent we are, 
 
 And how you hope we'll do the same again. 
 
 And we, who knew your old abusive tongue, 
 Who heard you hector us a week before, 
 
 We who have bled to boost you up a rung 
 A K.C.B. perhaps, perhaps a Corps 
 
 We who must mourn those spaces in the Mess, 
 And somehow fill those hollows in the heart, 
 
 We do not want your Sermon on Success, 
 Your greasy benisons on Being Smart. 
 
 We only want to take our wounds away 
 To some warm village where the tumult ends, 
 
 And drowsing in the sunshine many a day, 
 Forget our aches, forget that we had friends. 
 
 .> 21
 
 22 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Weary we are of blood and noise and pain ; 
 
 This was a week we shall not soon forget ; 
 And if, indeed, we have to fight again, 
 
 We little wish to think about it yet. 
 
 We have done well ; we like to hear it said. 
 Say it, and then, for God's sake, say no 
 
 more. 
 
 Fight, if you must, fresh battles far ahead, 
 But keep them dark behind your chateau 
 door !
 
 OPEN WARFARE 
 
 MEN said, " At last ! at last the open battle ! 
 
 Now shall we fight unfettered o'er the plain, 
 No more in catacombs be cooped like cattle, 
 
 Nor travel always in a devious drain ! " 
 They were in ecstasies. But I was damping ; 
 
 I like a trench, I have no lives to spare ; 
 And in those catacombs, however cramping, 
 
 You did at least know vaguely where you 
 were. 
 
 Ah, happy days in deep well-ordered alleys, 
 
 Where, after dining, probably with wine, 
 One felt indifferent to hostile sallies, 
 
 And with a pipe meandered round the line ; 
 You trudged along a trench until it ended 
 
 It led at least to some familiar spot 
 It might not be the place that you'd intended, 
 
 But then you might as well be there as not. 
 
 But what a wilderness we now inhabit 
 
 Since this confounded " open " strife pre- 
 vails ! 
 
 It may be good ; I do not wish to crab it, 
 But you should hear the language it entails 
 23
 
 24 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Should see this waste of wide uncharted 
 craters 
 
 Where it is vain to seek the Companies, 
 Seeing the shell-holes are as like as taters 
 
 And no one knows where anybody is. 
 
 Oft in the darkness, palpitant and blowing, 
 
 Have I set out and lost the hang of things, 
 And ever thought, " Where can that guide be 
 going ? " 
 
 But trusted long and rambled on in rings, 
 For ever mounting some tremendous summit, 
 
 And halting there to curse the contrite guide, 
 For ever then descending like a plummet 
 
 Into a chasm on the other side. 
 
 Oft have I sat and wept, or sought to study 
 
 With hopeless gaze the uninstructive stars. 
 Hopeless because the very skies were muddy 
 
 I only saw a red malignant Mars : 
 Or pulled my little compass out and pondered, 
 
 And set it sadly on my shrapnel hat, 
 Which, I suppose, was why the needle 
 wandered, 
 
 Only, of course, I never thought of that. 
 
 And then, perhaps, some 5.9's start dropping, 
 As if there weren't sufficient holes about ; 
 
 I flounder on, hysterical and sopping, 
 And come by chance to where I started out,
 
 OPEN WARFARE 25 
 
 And say once more, while I have no objection 
 To other men proceeding to Berlin, 
 
 Give me a trench, a nice revetted section, 
 And let me stay there till the Boche gives 
 in!
 
 BEAUCOURT REVISITED 
 
 I WANDERED up to Beaucourt ; I took the river 
 
 track, 
 And saw the lines we lived in before the Boche 
 
 went back ; 
 But Peace was now in Pottage, the front was 
 
 far ahead, 
 The front had journeyed Eastward, and only 
 
 left the dead. 
 
 And I thought, How long we lay there, and 
 
 watched across the wire, 
 While the guns roared round the valley, and set 
 
 the skies afire ! 
 But now there are homes in II AM EL and tents 
 
 in the Vale of Hell, 
 And a camp at Suicide Corner, where half a 
 
 regiment fell. 
 
 The new troops follow after, and tread the land 
 
 we won, 
 To them 'tis so much hill-side re-wrested from 
 
 the Hun ; 
 
 26
 
 BEAUCOURT REVISITED 27 
 
 We only walk with reverence this sullen mile of 
 
 mud ; 
 The shell-holes hold our history, and half of 
 
 them our blood. 
 
 Here, at the head of Peche Street, 'twas death 
 
 to show your face ; 
 To me it seemed like magic to linger in the 
 
 place ; 
 For me how many spirits hung round the 
 
 Kentish Caves, 
 But the new men see no spirits they only see 
 
 the graves. 
 
 I found the half-dug ditches we fashioned for 
 
 the fight, 
 We lost a score of men there young James was 
 
 killed that night ; 
 I saw the star shells staring, I heard the bullets 
 
 hail, 
 But the new troops pass unheeding they 
 
 never heard the tale. 
 
 I crossed the blood-red ribbon, that once was 
 No-Man's Land, 
 
 I saw a misty daybreak and a creeping minute- 
 hand ;
 
 28 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 And here the lads went over, and there was 
 
 Harmsworth shot, 
 And here was William lying but the new men 
 
 know them not. 
 
 And I said, " There is still the river, and still 
 
 the stiff, stark trees, 
 To treasure here our story, but there are only 
 
 these " ; 
 But under the white wood crosses the dead men 
 
 answered low, 
 " The new men know not BEAUCOURT, but we 
 
 are here we know."
 
 THE INVESTITURE 
 
 BE silent, guns ! for Basil is invested, 
 
 And wheresoe'er the slaves of strife are 
 
 found 
 
 Let your grim offices be now arrested, 
 Nor the hot rifle shoot another round, 
 
 Nor the pale flarelights toss, 
 But for a space all devilry be barred, 
 While Mars hangs motionless in pleased 
 
 regard 
 And the hushed lines look West to Palace 
 
 Yard, 
 
 Where on his breast our King has pinned the 
 Cross. 
 
 Oft in the Mess have we rehearsed that 
 
 moment, 
 In old French farms have staged the Royal 
 
 Square, 
 
 Or in cool caves by Germans made at Beau- 
 mont, 
 
 Though there indeed we had no space to 
 spare, 
 
 So lifelike was it all. 
 29
 
 3 o THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 And when King George (the Padre's hard 
 
 to beat 
 
 In that great role), surrounded by his suite, 
 Pinned on the cover of the potted meat, 
 The very Hippodrome had seemed too small. 
 
 Or we would act the homing of our Hector, 
 Flushed up with pride beneath the ancestral 
 
 fir, 
 
 The cheering rustics and the sweet old Rector, 
 Welcoming back " our brave parishioner " ; 
 
 And since the lad was shy 
 We made him get some simple phrases pat 
 To thank them for the Presentation Bat, 
 While Maud stood near (the Adjutant did 
 
 that), 
 So overcome that she could only sigh. 
 
 Ah ! Basil, say our pageants were not wasted, 
 
 Not vain the Adjutant's laborious blush ! 
 
 Was it to Maud this glowing morn you hasted 
 
 With yonder bauble in its bed of plush 
 
 Or was it that Miss Blake ? 
 Say not you faced, with ill-concealed 
 
 dismay, 
 Your thronging townsmen and had naught 
 
 to say, 
 Or from your King stepped tremblingly 
 
 away 
 With some one else's Order by mistake !
 
 THE INVESTITURE 31 
 
 Surely you shamed us not ! for all that 
 
 splendour 
 Can scarce have been more moving to the 
 
 heart 
 
 Than our glad rites, the Princess not so tender 
 As was myself, who always took that part ; 
 
 I cannot think the King, 
 Nor gorgeous Lords, nor Officers of State, 
 Nor seedy people peering through the 
 
 gate, 
 
 Felt half so proud or so affectionate 
 As those far friends when we arranged the 
 thing.
 
 THE ATROCITY 
 
 (The following lines have no personal re- 
 ference, but are in principle, mutatis mutandis, 
 of regrettably wide application.) 
 
 O GOD of War, is this the end ? 
 
 O Mars, who made the shameful Hun, 
 Is this the final shame you send 
 
 To show us we have nearly won ? 
 
 A thing that fairly takes the bun, 
 That turns our golden deeds to dross. 
 
 O Vimy Ridge and O Verdun 
 The A .D.C. has got the Cross ! 
 
 Because he caught a rotten chill, 
 
 Because he had to ring the bells, 
 And oft from some convenient hill 
 
 Distinctly heard the sound of shells ; 
 
 Because he was the son of swells, 
 Because he was compelled to doss 
 
 In quite indifferent hotels 
 The A. D.C. has got the Cross ! 
 3*
 
 THE ATROCITY 33 
 
 He never saw the tiniest louse 
 
 (Or thought the creature was a gnat), 
 But little jobs about the house 
 
 Were what the lad was gallant at ; 
 
 And since he made himself a mat 
 To wipe the boots of any boss, 
 
 And since they like a man like that 
 The A.D.C. has got the Cross. 
 
 Because he bought the right cigars, 
 And last December got wet through, 
 
 And had to drive in draughty cars, 
 And speak when he was spoken to, 
 And soon perceived it wasn't true 
 
 That rolling logs collect no moss, 
 And stuck to generals like glue 
 
 The A.D.C. has got the Cross ! 
 
 O hero hosts who bleed and sweat, 
 Whose names the King will never ken, 
 
 Be calm ; you may be butlers yet 
 Two mentions per six hundred men 
 Must satisfy your souls till then ; 
 
 And why should soldiers care a toss 
 For all the medals minted, when 
 
 The A.D.C. has got the Cross ?
 
 THE BALLAD OF JONES'S BLIGHTY 
 
 THERE are some men who dwell for years 
 
 Within the battle's hem, 
 Almost impervious, it appears, 
 
 To shot or stratagem ; 
 Some well-intentioned sprite contrives 
 By hook or crook to save their lives 
 (It also keeps them from their wives), 
 
 And Jones was one of them. 
 
 The hugest bolts of Messrs. Krupp 
 Hissed harmless through his hair ; 
 
 The Boche might blow his billet up, 
 But he would be elsewhere ; 
 
 And if with soul-destroying thud 
 
 A monstrous Minnie hit the mud, 
 
 The thing was sure to be a dud 
 If only Jones was there. 
 
 Men envied him his scathless skin, 
 
 But he deplored the fact, 
 And day by day, from sheer chagrin, 
 
 He did some dangerous act ; 
 34
 
 THE BALLAD OF JONES'S BLIGHTY 35 
 
 He slew innumerable Huns, 
 He captured towns, he captured guns : 
 His friends went home with Blighty ones, 
 But he remained intact. 
 
 We had a horse of antique shape, 
 
 Meek and of mellowed age, 
 And, after some unique escape, 
 
 Which made him mad with rage, 
 On this grave steed Jones rode away ; 
 They bore him back at break of day, 
 And Jones is now with Mrs. J , 
 
 The convalescent stage. 
 
 The world observed the chance was droll 
 
 That sent so mild a hack 
 To smite the invulnerable soul 
 
 Whom William could not whack ; 
 But spiteful folk remarked, of course, 
 He must have used terrific force 
 Before he got that wretched horse 
 
 To throw him off its back.
 
 THE TRENCH CODE 
 
 AH ! with what awe, what infantile impatience, 
 
 We eyed the artifice when issued out, 
 And racked our brains about the Regulations, 
 And tried to think we had them free from 
 
 doubt, 
 
 As Rome's old Fathers, reverently leaning 
 In secret cellars o'er the Sibyl's strain, 
 Beyond the fact that several pars 
 Had something vague to do with Mars, 
 Failed, as a rule, to find the smallest meaning, 
 But told the plebs the oracle was plain ! 
 
 So did we study it, ourselves deceiving, 
 
 In hope to say, " We have no rations here," 
 Or " Please, Brigade, this regiment wants 
 
 relieving," 
 And " Thank you for the bombs but why 
 
 no beer ? " 
 
 And wondered always, with a hint of presage, 
 Since never a word emerged as it was 
 
 planned, 
 
 If it was Hermes, Lord of Craft, 
 Compiled the code, or some one daft, 
 So that no mortal could compose a message 
 Which anybody else could understand. 
 36
 
 THE TRENCH CODE 37 
 
 Too soon the Staff, to spoil our tiny slumbers, 
 
 Or, as they said, to certify our skill, 
 Sent us a screed, all signs and magic numbers, 
 
 And what it signified is mystery still. 
 We flung them back a message yet more mazy, 
 To say we weren't unravelling their own, 
 And marked it Urgent, and designed 
 That it should reach them while they 
 
 dined. 
 All night they toiled, till half the crowd were 
 
 crazy, 
 
 And bade us breathe its burthen o'er the 
 'phone. 
 
 But now they want it back and it is missing ! 
 And shall one patriot heart withhold a 
 
 throb ? 
 For four high officers have been here, hissing, 
 
 And plainly panicky about their job. 
 I know they think some dark, deluded bandit 
 Has gone and given it to Kaiser Bill ; 
 
 But though I'm grieved the General's 
 
 cross, 
 
 I have no qualms about the loss 
 If clever men like us can't understand it, 
 I don't suppose the Wilhelmstrasse will !
 
 THE HUMILIATION OF THE PALFREY 
 
 WHERE is she now, the pride of the battalion. 
 
 That ambled always at the Colonel's side, 
 A fair white steed, like some majestic galleon 
 Which takes deliberate the harbour tide, 
 So soft, so slow, she scarcely seems to 
 
 stir? 
 
 And that, indeed, was very true of her 
 
 Who was till late, so kind her character, 
 
 The only horse the Adjutant could ride. 
 
 Ever she led the regiment on its journeys 
 And held sweet converse with the Colonel's 
 
 gee, 
 
 Of knights, no doubt, and old heroic tourneys, 
 
 And how she bare great ladies o'er the lea ; 
 
 And on high hill-sides, when the men felt 
 
 dead, 
 Far up the height they viewed her at the 
 
 head, 
 A star of hope, and shook themselves, and 
 
 said, 
 
 " If she can do it, dammit, so can we ! " 
 38
 
 HUMILIATION OF THE PALFREY 39 
 
 But she was old, my Adjutantial palfrey. 
 
 In front no longer but in rear to-day, 
 Behind the bicycles, and not at all free 
 To be familiar with the General's grey, 
 She walks in shame with all those misan- 
 thropes, 
 
 The sad pack-animals who have no hopes, 
 But must by men be led about on ropes, 
 Condemned till death to carry S.A.A., 
 
 And bombs, and beef, and officers' valises ; 
 
 And I at eve have marked my wistful mare 
 By thronging dumps where cursing never 
 
 ceases 
 And rations come, for oft she brings them 
 
 there, 
 Patient, aloof; and when the shrapnel 
 
 dropp'd 
 And the young mules complained and 
 
 kicked and hopp'd, 
 She only stood unmoved, with one leg 
 
 propp'd, 
 As if she heard it not or did not care ; 
 
 Or heard, maybe, but hoped to get a Blighty ; 
 
 For on her past she lately seemed to brood, 
 And dreamed herself once more among the 
 mighty, 
 
 By grooms beloved and reverently shoed ;
 
 4 o THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 But now she has no standing in the corps, 
 And Death itself would hardly be a bore, 
 Save that, although she carries me no 
 
 more, 
 Tis something still to carry up my food.
 
 'THE CHAIN OF RESPONSIBILITY' 3 
 
 (" These, aided by their staffs and assistants, 
 convey his will to ... subordinates under 
 them, each of whom carries it down still lower, 
 until eventually all ranks are controlled by 
 it." Field Service Regulations.} 
 
 ALL night the tempest howled about the 
 
 camp, 
 And through the tent flaps filtered in the 
 
 damp. 
 
 The Brigadier woke up and saw no sun ; 
 His eggs were cold ; his bacon was not done ; 
 And, to express his reasonable pique 
 At being born into a world so bleak, 
 He spake as tartly as a General can 
 To Major Thingummy, his right-hand man ; 
 Who, well aware no negligence of his 
 Deserved just then these high-toned blas- 
 phemies, 
 
 Took horse and galloped with a heart in flame 
 Till he encountered Colonel Whatshisname ; 
 To whom in terms not reverent but frank, 
 Such as to persons of superior rank, 
 But not upon the Staff, the Staff may use, 
 The Major stingingly expressed his views 
 41
 
 42 THE BOIMBER GIPSY 
 
 On how the Colonel or his dastard force 
 Had for a week possessed an extra horse. 
 The Colonel, lamb-like, heard the harsh critique 
 (He simply could not trust himself to speak), 
 But, spurring home, not lamb-like in the least, 
 Addressed his Adjutant about the beast ; 
 Who, hushed and hurt, confessed the horrid 
 
 crime 
 (But knew his chief had known it all the 
 
 time), 
 
 Went out and sought for somebody to err, 
 And found, of course, the Transport Officer, 
 A happy person, who from day to day 
 Did all his duties in the wrongest way 
 Yet, gentle youth, however wild his whim, 
 Not often people could be cross with him. 
 But, in this case, so mortified his mind, 
 The Adjutant was pleased to be unkind. 
 The astonished victim, on the hallowed plan, 
 Relieved his feelings on the nearest man, 
 And duly visited with words of doom 
 An unattractive but contented groom, 
 With tuneful sibilance and studious care 
 Engaged in polishing the surplus mare ; 
 His whistle finished, and with needless force 
 He raised his boot and kicked the smiling 
 
 horse 
 
 Under the belly and it smiled no more . . . 
 And one more day was added to the War.
 
 TO THE REGIMENT 
 
 A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE 
 
 So Christmas comes and finds you yet in 
 
 Flanders, 
 
 And all is mud and messiness and sleet, 
 And men have temperatures and horses 
 
 glanders, 
 And Brigadiers have trouble with their 
 
 feet, 
 
 And life is bad for Company-Commanders, 
 And even Thomas's is not so sweet. 
 
 Now cooks for kindle- wood would give great 
 riches, 
 
 And in the dixies the pale stew congeals, 
 And ration-parties are not free from hitches, 
 
 But all night circle like performing seals, 
 Till morning breaks and everybody pitches 
 
 Into a hole some other person's meals. 
 
 Now regiments huddle over last week's ashes, 
 And pray for coal and sedulously " rest " 
 43
 
 44 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Where rain and wind contemn the empty 
 sashes, 
 
 And blue lips frame the faint heroic jest, 
 Till some near howitzer goes off and smashes 
 
 The only window that the town possessed. 
 
 The lean mule strains, the limbers lip 
 
 crevasses, 
 And roads are black with cookers in the 
 
 ditch ; 
 And men sleep warmlier who sleep in masses, 
 
 And peers confess the not inglorious itch, 
 Or get, like teeth, extracted from morasses 
 Nor could their Ma's distinguish which is 
 which. 
 
 Yet somehow Christmas hi your souls is 
 
 stirring, 
 
 And Colonels now less viciously upbraid 
 Their Transport Officers, however erring, 
 And sudden signals issue from Brigade 
 To say next Tuesday Christmas is occurring, 
 And what arrangements have Battalions 
 made ? 
 
 And then, maybe, while every one discusses 
 On what rich foods their dear commands 
 shall dine, 
 
 And (most efficiently) the Padre fusses 
 
 About the birds, the speeches, and the wine,
 
 TO THE REGIMENT 45 
 
 The Corps Commander sends a crowd of buses 
 To whisk you off to Christmas in the line. 
 
 You make no moan, nor hint at how you're 
 
 faring, 
 
 And here in turn we try to hide our woe, 
 With taxis mutinous, and Tubes- so wearing, 
 
 And who can tell where all the matches go ? 
 And all our doors and windows want re- 
 pairing, 
 
 But can we get a man to mend them ? 
 No. 
 
 The dustman visits not ; we can't get castor ; 
 In vain are parlour-maids and plumbers 
 
 sought ; 
 
 And human intellect can scarcely master 
 The time when beer may lawfully be 
 
 bought, 
 
 Or calculate how cash can go much faster, 
 And if one's butcher's acting as he ought. 
 
 Our old indulgences are now not cricket ; 
 
 Whate'er one does some Minister will cuss; 
 In Tube and Tram young ladies punch one's 
 ticket, 
 
 With whom one can't be cross or querulous ; 
 All things are different, but still we stick it, 
 
 And humbly hope we help a little thus.
 
 46 THE BO1MBER GIPSY 
 
 So, Fellow-sufferers, we give you greeting 
 All luck, all laughter, and an end of wars ! 
 
 And just to strengthen you for Fritz's beating, 
 I'm sending out a parcel from the Stores ; 
 
 They mean to stop my annual over-eating, 
 But it will comfort me to think of yours.
 
 ZERO 
 
 (" Zero-hour " commonly known as " Zero " 
 is the hour fixed for the opening of an Infantry 
 attack.} 
 
 I WOKE at dawn and flung the window wide. 
 
 Behind the hedge the lazy river ran ; 
 The dusky barges idled down the tide ; 
 
 In the laburnum tree the birds began ; 
 And it was May, and half the world in flower ; 
 I saw the sun creep over an Eastward 
 
 brow, 
 
 And thought, " It may be, this is Zero- 
 hour ; 
 
 Somewhere the lads are ' going over ' 
 now." 
 
 Somewhere the guns speak sudden on the 
 
 height, 
 And build for miles their battlement of 
 
 fire ; 
 Somewhere the men that shivered all the 
 
 night 
 
 Peer anxious forth and scramble through the 
 wire, 
 
 47
 
 48 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Swarm slowly out to where the Maxims bark, 
 And green and red the panic rockets rise ; 
 
 And Hell is loosed, and shyly sings a lark, 
 And the red sun climbs sadly up the skies. 
 
 Now they have won some sepulchred Gav- 
 
 relle, 
 Some shattered homes in their own dust 
 
 concealed ; 
 Now no Boche troubles them or any shell, 
 
 But almost quiet holds the thankful field, 
 While men draw breath, and down the Arras 
 
 road 
 Come the slow mules with battle's dreary 
 
 stores, 
 
 And there is time to see the wounded stowed, 
 And stretcher-squads besiege the doctors' 
 doors. 
 
 Then belches Hell anew. And all day long 
 
 The afflicted place drifts heavenward in dust, 
 
 All day the shells shriek out their devils' song, 
 
 All day men cling close to the earth's charred 
 
 crust, 
 
 Till, in the dusk, the Huns come on again, 
 And, like some sluice, the watchers up the 
 
 hill 
 
 Let loose the guns and flood the soil with slain, 
 And they go back, but scourge the village 
 still.
 
 ZERO 49 
 
 I see it all. I see the same brave souls 
 
 To-night, to-morrow, though the half be 
 
 gone, 
 
 Deafened and dazed, and hunted from their 
 holes, 
 
 Helpless and hunger-sick, but holding on ; 
 I shall be happy all to-morrow here, 
 
 But not till night shall they go up the steep, 
 And, nervous now because the end is near, 
 
 Totter at last to quietness and to sleep. 
 
 And men who find it easier to forget 
 
 In England here, among the daffodils, 
 That Eastward there are fields unflowered 
 
 yet, 
 
 And murderous May-days on the unlovely 
 
 hills- 
 Let them go walking where the land is fair, 
 And watch the breaking of a morn in May, 
 And think, " It may be Zero over there," 
 
 But here is Peace " and kneel awhile, 
 and pray.
 
 THE MISCHIEF-MAKERS 
 
 AH me ! how peaceful was the sector, 
 
 How like a home these trenches were, 
 Where never a Hun would hate or hector, 
 
 And only swallows cleft the air ; 
 Where always poppies blew above the lines, 
 
 And little mice ran shyly through the corn ; 
 Where food was frequent, with expensive 
 wines, 
 
 And Sam Browne belts were worn. 
 
 And if through some ingenious crevice 
 We marked a head of hostile type, 
 We neither harassed him with " heavies " 
 
 Nor fired our telescopic hyp. ; 
 But rather, like some rare and precious prize, 
 Preserved the man, and showed him to the 
 
 Staff, 
 
 Who looked at him with large, important eyes, 
 But did no sort of strafe. 
 
 And he, detecting any Tommies, 
 Regarded them with some disdain, 
 
 But seldom spoiled their youthful promise, 
 Nor caused them any needless pain ; 
 
 50
 
 THE MISCHIEF-MAKERS 51 
 
 While, if at night inimical patrols 
 
 By some mischance came sudden face to face 
 They glowered fiercely from adjacent holes, 
 But nothing else took place. 
 
 And then, from some polemic quarter, 
 
 Some very earnest camp in Kent, 
 Came out, alack ! a baleful Mortar, 
 
 With crowds of men on murder bent ; 
 Radiant they came because the drills were 
 
 done, 
 With stacks of shells and valour all too 
 
 vast 
 
 They only longed to load their blessed gun 
 And let it off at last. 
 
 We told them how the Hun was purring, 
 
 But would not be if they began ; 
 We said their shells, however erring, 
 
 Were certain to annoy the man ; 
 We showed them spots more worthy of their 
 
 arts 
 
 Far on the flank or far away in rear ; 
 We said they swarmed in other people's parts, 
 But there were none just. here. 
 
 But it was vain. With grieved impatience 
 They hid themselves in some huge trough, 
 
 Interred their gun with incantations, 
 And madly loosed the monster off.
 
 52 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Straight on the sound, while yet the great 
 
 bomb boomed, 
 Five awful Minnies whistled down the 
 
 wind, 
 
 And men for miles immediately assumed 
 A hostile frame of mind. 
 
 Observers woke and peered through prisms, 
 
 And every sort of specialist 
 Produced his hideous mechanisms, 
 
 And made it penal to exist. 
 The sniper snipes, impervious to appeals, 
 
 Immense projectiles hurtle to and from, 
 And no one now can count upon his meals 
 Even the bombers bomb. 
 
 It may be they will one day leave us 
 
 Their stock of shells may sometimes cease, 
 And this charred region, now so grievous, 
 
 May see some slight return of peace ; 
 But never quite can hate be banished hence, 
 'Twill never be the old good-natured zone, 
 Where war was war, but people had some 
 sense 
 
 The place has lost its tone.
 
 THE ROMANCERS 
 
 (The New Statesman complains that War 
 Correspondents are not sufficiently realistic.) 
 
 AH ! no, you hardly catch the thunder, 
 
 But still in that familiar mode, 
 Reiterate with childlike wonder 
 
 That guns go off and shells explode ; 
 Still simple seem, as penned in your report, 
 These desperate movements of a million 
 
 men, 
 As who should say, " They got in at Earl's 
 
 Court, 
 And came to High Street, Ken." 
 
 We weary of that land of banter 
 
 Where armies dwell in one long purr, 
 When not assaulting, at the canter, 
 
 By methods which can scarcely err ; 
 We do not share your manifest surprise 
 
 That wounded men, receding from the fray, 
 Should not come down with sorrow in their 
 
 eyes 
 But be a little gay ; 
 
 5 53
 
 54 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 We want to hear of human terrors, 
 
 The tactics which turned out a frost, 
 The men who made enormous errors, 
 
 The working-parties nobly lost : 
 Tell us of rations which did not arrive, 
 
 Of cookers ditched and mules that are no 
 
 more, 
 
 And let us think one Boche is still alive 
 To carry on the war. 
 
 We want to hear the homely details 
 Of how men wash in shrapnel-hats, 
 The kind of beer the Frenchman retails 
 
 And what they do about the rats, 
 And not those super-myths, the " boys " who 
 
 bask 
 
 In seas of shells or frolic in the mud, 
 And, at the end, invariably ask 
 For further deeds of blood. 
 
 4 
 
 And yet, as your romances worsen 
 
 I do not hold you most to blame, 
 For that imaginative person, 
 
 The British private, makes the same ; 
 And when I read how proud you were to speak 
 
 " With certain units resting in their barns," 
 I seem to see them, every tongue in cheek, 
 f Filling you up with yarns.
 
 "AT DAWN" 
 
 'E WASN'T like us lucky ones 
 
 'Oo thinks of nothing much but beer, 
 Though 'e was mad to meet the 'Uns 
 
 (They always is until they're 'ere) ; 
 It's 'ard to think of 'ow e's gorn, 
 
 And 'ow I've joked with Bill and 'im 
 About us getting shot at dorn, 
 
 And now it's 'appened and to Jim ! 
 
 There's some as can't 'elp feeling fear, 
 
 And some as don't know what it is, 
 And why they get the Cross out 'ere 
 
 Is one of Gawd's own mysteries ; 
 And 'ow 'e stuck it as 'e did 
 
 But never 'ad a smell of such : 
 'E was as keen as any kid, 
 
 But 'e imagined things too much. 
 
 And when it came to stunts ""e ran., 
 And chucked away 'is blooming life. 
 
 They say 'e took it like a man, 
 
 But that don't seem to 'elp 'is wife": 
 
 55
 
 56 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 She might 'ave dreamed 'er soldier-lad 
 'Ad copped a packet full of pride 
 
 Like 'arf the regiment, fighting mad 
 But Gawd I they've told ''er 'ow '<? died.
 
 PATROLS 
 
 The Scout Officer soliloquizes : 
 
 THE lights begin to leap along the lines, 
 
 Leap up and hang and swoop and sputter 
 out ; 
 
 A bullet hits a wiring-post and whines ; 
 I wish to God that I was not a Scout / 
 
 How fair it seemed in far-off Dorset days 
 To leave my envious fellows at their 
 drill, 
 
 To seek adventure in the forest ways, 
 And follow footsteps over Badbury Hill ; 
 
 Or in a fight to spy upon the foe 
 
 With reckless courage from the oak-tree's 
 
 heart, 
 
 To stalk some sentinel and lay him low, 
 Or slip past pickets in the grocer's cart ! 
 57
 
 58 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Ah ! those were days. And then I loved the 
 
 trade; 
 
 Far other is this battle in the waste, 
 Wherein, each night, though not of course 
 
 afraid, 
 I wriggle round with ill-concealed distaste; 
 
 Where who can say what menace is not nigh, 
 What ambushed foe, what unexploded 
 crump, 
 
 And the glad worm, aspiring to the sky, 
 Emerges suddenly and makes you jump. 
 
 Where either all is still so still one feels 
 
 That something huge must presently ex- 
 plode 
 And back, far back, is heard the noise of 
 
 wheels 
 From Prussian waggons on the Douai road ; 
 
 And flares shoot upward with a startling hiss 
 And fall, and flame intolerably close, 
 
 So that it seems no living man could miss 
 How huge my head must look, my legs how 
 gross ! 
 
 Or the live air is full of droning hums 
 And cracking whips and whispering snakes 
 of fire. 
 
 And a loud buzz of conversation comes 
 
 From Simpson's party putting out some wire ;
 
 PATROLS 59 
 
 Or else as when some soloist is done 
 
 And the hushed orchestra may now begin 
 
 A sudden rage inflames the placid Hun 
 And scouts lie naked in a world of din. 
 
 The sullen bomb dissolves in singing shapes ; 
 
 The whizz-bang jostles it too fast to flee ; 
 Machine-guns chatter like demented apes 
 
 And, goodness, can it all be meant for me ? 
 
 It can and is. And such are small affairs 
 Compared with Tompkins and his Lewis 
 gun, 
 
 Or eager folk who play about with flares, 
 And, like as not, mistake me for a Hun ; 
 
 Compared with when some gunner, having 
 
 dined, 
 
 To show his guest the glories of his art 
 " Poops off a round or two," which burst 
 
 behind, 
 But fail to drown the beating of my heart. 
 
 Sweet to all soldiers is the rearward view ; 
 
 To infanteers how grand the gunners' case ! 
 And I suppose men pine at G.H.Q. 
 
 For the rich ease of people at the Base.
 
 60 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 To me is sweet this mean and noisome ditch, 
 When on my belly I must issue out 
 
 Into the night, inscrutable as pitch 
 I wish to God that I was not a Scout I
 
 THE DESERTERS 
 
 WHERE are the maids that used to lay my 
 
 table, 
 And cook my meals and (sometimes) scrub 
 
 the floor ? 
 
 Florrie and Maud and Emily and Mabel, 
 All, all are gone to prosecute the war : 
 In reeking vaults and mountain dells 
 They tend their sheep or fill their 
 
 shells, 
 
 While my wife answers all the bells, 
 And no one shines my Sam Browne any 
 more. 
 
 Where is Elizabeth, whose eyes were argent ? 
 
 Ah, what a home her hospital must be ! 
 Winnie's a " Waac," and bound to be a 
 
 Sergeant 
 
 Judging from how she dominated me 
 (Only I hope she never stoops 
 To talk like that to Lady troops) ; 
 And Maud, who dropped so many soups, 
 What does she do with bombs and T.N.T. ? 
 61
 
 62 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Our car stands starving in the dusty garage, 
 
 But Mabel drives a whacking limousine ; 
 And when they sprinkle us with bits of 
 
 barrage, 
 We know that much of it was made by 
 
 Jean. 
 
 Our income slowly disappears, 
 While they get more than Brigadiers 
 No wonder now the agent sneers, 
 " You can't get girls to come to Turnham 
 Green ! " 
 
 Do they look back, and hope that we are 
 
 happy, 
 
 With no one left to fuss about our food, 
 And when some foreman is extremely snappy, 
 Recall with tears my courtlier attitude ? 
 Rather, I ween, with mirthful hoots 
 They think of Master cleaning boots, 
 And thank their stars, the little brutes ! 
 They bear no more the yoke of housemaid- 
 hood. 
 
 And what will happen when the Boche goes 
 
 under, 
 And all these women fling their swords 
 
 away ? 
 Will the dear maids come back to us, I 
 
 wonder ? 
 Shall I be able to afford their pay ?
 
 THE DESERTERS 63 
 
 And will they want Munition rates ? 
 Ah, who can read the ruthless Fates ? 
 Meanwhile, we wash the dirty plates, 
 And do our whack as willingly as they.
 
 FREE MEALS 
 
 WHEN William had not crossed the Rhine 
 
 And food could still be found, 
 How often did we all decline, 
 If some one asked us out to dine, 
 
 Upon the smallest ground ! 
 Because his talk was imbecile, 
 
 Because his face was plain, 
 One used to miss the loveliest meal 
 
 And not get asked again. 
 
 Less oft to-day do men endow 
 
 Their famished friends with food ; 
 Free dinners are free dinners now, 
 And to refuse, as all allow, 
 
 Is rather mad than rude ; 
 While prudent folk, with frank delight, 
 
 Both indigent and rich, 
 When asked to " Come and dine some night," 
 
 Make answer, " Thank you ; which ? " 
 
 My old friend Hubert, like some bee, 
 
 From host to host doth flit 
 For dinner, lunch, and even tea 
 (I do believe he'd breakfast free 
 
 If he could manage it) ; 
 64
 
 FREE MEALS 65 
 
 Till, having drained all other flowers 
 
 And reached an anxious point, 
 He flies to Streatham and devours 
 
 His Aunt Jane's Sunday joint. 
 
 In olden days he only knew 
 
 Those in the social swim, 
 But now he takes a broader view 
 And feeds with all (though very few 
 
 Have ever fed with him) ; 
 Only, I think, he has a doubt, 
 
 Only the world looks grey, 
 When different people ask him out 
 
 To dinner on one day. 
 
 And surely thus shall strife conclude 
 
 When rations get so small 
 That peers with peasantry have chewed, 
 And men are glad to take their food 
 
 With anyone at all ; 
 Though, at the worst, I don't expect 
 
 The War will thus be done ; 
 A starving world would still object 
 
 To eating with the Hun.
 
 THE WAR-DREAM 
 
 I WISH I did not dream of France, 
 And spend my nights in mortal dread 
 
 On miry flats where whizz-bangs dance 
 And star-shells hover o'er my head, 
 
 And sometimes wake my anxious spouse 
 
 By making shrill excited rows 
 
 Because it seems a hundred " hows " 
 Are barraging the bed. 
 
 I never fight with tigers now 
 Or know the old nocturnal mares 
 
 The house on fire, the frantic cow, 
 The cut-throat coming up the stairs 
 
 Would be a treat ; I almost miss 
 
 That feeling of paralysis 
 
 With which one climbed a precipice, 
 Or ran away from bears. 
 
 Nor do I dream the pleasant days 
 
 That sometimes soothe the worst of wars, 
 
 Of omelettes and estaminets 
 And smiling maids at cottage doors ; 
 66
 
 THE WAR-DREAM 67 
 
 But in a vague unbounded waste 
 For ever hide with futile haste 
 From 5.9's precisely placed, 
 
 And all the time it pours. 
 
 Yet, if I showed colossal phlegm, 
 
 Or kept enormous crowds at bay, 
 And sometimes won the D.C.M., 
 
 It might inspire me for the fray ; 
 But, looking back, I do not seem 
 To recollect a single dream 
 In which I did not simply scream 
 And try to run away. 
 
 And when I wake with flesh that creeps, 
 
 The only solace I can see 
 Is thinking, if the Prussian sleeps, 
 
 What hideous visions his must be ! 
 Can all my dreams of gore and guns 
 Be half as rotten as the Hun's ? 
 I like to think his blackest ones 
 
 Are when he dreams of me.
 
 THE PASSING OF THE COD'S HEAD 
 
 (A Romance of Chiswick Mall.) 
 
 IT was because the dustman did not come ; 
 
 It was because our cat was overfed, 
 And, gorged with some superior pabulum, 
 
 Declined to touch the cod's disgusting head. 
 It was because the weather was too warm 
 
 To hide the horror in the refuse-bin, 
 And too intense the perfume of its form, 
 
 My wife commanded me to do the sin, 
 To take and cast it in the twinkling Thames 
 A practice which the neighbourhood con- 
 demns. 
 
 So on the midnight, with a strong cigar 
 
 And scented handkerchief, I tiptoed near, 
 But felt the exotic fragrance from afar ; 
 
 I thought of Arthur and Sir Bedivere : 
 And it seemed best to leave it on the plate, 
 
 So strode I back and told my curious spouse, 
 " I heard the high tide lap along the Eyot, 
 
 And the wild water at the barges' bows." 
 She said, " O treacherous ! O heart of clay ! 
 Go back and throw the smelly thing away." 
 68
 
 PASSING OF THE COD'S HEAD 69 
 
 Thereat I seized it, and with guilty shoon 
 
 Stole out indignant to the water's marge ; 
 Its eyes like emeralds caught the affronted 
 moon ; 
 
 The stars conspired to make the thing look 
 
 large ; 
 Surely all Chiswick would perceive my shame ! 
 
 I clutched the indecency and whirled it round 
 And flung it from me like a torch in flame, 
 
 And a great wailing swept across the sound, 
 As though the deep were calling back its kith. 
 I said, " It will go down to Hammersmith ; 
 
 " It will go down beyond the Chelsea flats, 
 
 And hang with barges under Battersea, 
 Will press past Wapping with decaying cats, 
 
 And the dead dog shall bear it company ; 
 Small bathing boys shall feel its clammy prod, 
 
 And think some jelly-fish has fled the surge ; 
 And so 'twill win to where the tribe of cod 
 
 In its own ooze intones a fitting dirge, 
 And after that some false and impious fish 
 Will likely have it for a breakfast dish." 
 
 The morning dawned. The tide had stripped 
 
 the shore, 
 
 And that foul shape I fancied so remote 
 Lay stark below, just opposite next door ! 
 Who would have said a cod's head could not 
 
 float? 
 6
 
 70 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 No more my neighbour in his garden sits ; 
 
 My callers now regard the view with groans ; 
 For tides may roll and rot the fleshly bits, 
 
 But what shall mortify those ageless bones ? 
 How shall I bear to hear my grandsons say, 
 " Look at the fish that Granddad threw away " ?
 
 THE HELLES HOTEL 
 
 WHEN I consider how my life is spent 
 
 In this dark world of sugar-cards and queues, 
 
 Where none but babes get proper nourishment 
 And meanly men remunerate the Muse, 
 
 I dream of holidays when Peace is sent, 
 But not such dreams as common persons 
 use 
 
 I know a headland at the Dardanelles 
 
 Where I shall build the best of all hotels. 
 
 I know a cliff-top where the wealthy guest 
 From languid balconies shall each day view 
 
 Far over Samothrace the tired sun rest 
 And melt, a marvel, into Europe's blue, 
 
 To come back blushing out of Asia's breast 
 And hang, at noon, divided 'twixt the two, 
 
 While shuttered casements looking out to Troy 
 
 Shall faintly stimulate the Fifth-Form boy. 
 
 There shall they have, with those delicious skies, 
 All that rich ease for which the Armies prayed, 
 
 Nor dust nor drought nor shortage of supplies, 
 But long cool glasses in the cypress' shade, 
 
 And starlight suppers, and, of course, no flies, 
 And in their bathing-place no mules decayed ; 
 
 Shall swim in the JEgean, if they want, 
 
 Or go and do ib in the Hellespont.
 
 72 
 
 There shall they hear from olives overhead 
 The cricket call to them and no shells sing, 
 
 While painted lizards flash before their tread 
 And in green gullies trills the sudden Spring ; 
 
 Shall walk, unblinded by disease and dread, 
 Where myrtle beckons and rock-roses cling, 
 
 And find it difficult to tell their aunts 
 
 The proper names of all these funny plants. 
 
 There shall they see across the storied Sound 
 Some snow-peak glisten like a muffled star, 
 
 And murmur, " That's Olympus, I'll be bound," 
 And tread old battle-fields where vineyards 
 are ; 
 
 With scarred young veterans they'll amble 
 
 round 
 The Turks' entanglements at Sedd-el-Bahr, 
 
 And practise at a reasonable charge 
 
 Heroic landings in the hotel barge. 
 
 But there are dates when tourists shall be 
 banned, 
 
 High dates of April and of early June, 
 When only they that bear the Helles brand, 
 
 A few tired Captains and the Tenth Platoon, 
 Shall see strange shadows in that flowery land 
 
 And ghostly cruisers underneath the moon : 
 They only then shall scale the sunny hills, 
 And they alone shall have no heavy bills.
 
 DEAD-MULE TREE 
 A SONG OF WISDOM 
 
 IT'S a long step round by the Crucifix for a 
 
 man with a mighty load, 
 But there's hell to pay where the dead mule 
 
 lies if you go by the Bailleul road, 
 Where the great shells sport like an angry 
 
 child with a litter of broken bricks, 
 So we don't go down by the Dead-Mule Tree, 
 
 but round by the Crucifix. 
 
 But the wild young men come bubbling out 
 
 and look for an early grave ; 
 They light their pipes on the parapet edge and 
 
 think they're being brave ; 
 They take no heed of the golden rules that the 
 
 long, long years have taught, 
 And they WILL go down by the Dead-Mule 
 
 Tree when they know that nobody ought. 
 
 And some of us old ones feel some days that 
 
 life is a tiring thing, 
 And we show our heads in the same place twice, 
 
 we stand in a trench and sing ; 
 73
 
 74 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 We lark about like a kid just out and shatter 
 
 a hundred rules, 
 Bui we never go down by the Dead-Mule Tree, 
 
 we aren't such perfect fools. 
 
 And the War goes on and the men go down, 
 
 and, be he young or old, 
 An English man with an English gun is worth 
 
 his weight in gold, 
 And I hate to think of the fine young lads who 
 
 laughed at you and me 
 Who wouldn't go round by the Crucifix but died 
 
 at the Dead-Mule Tree.
 
 THE COOKERS 
 
 A SONG OF THE TRANSPORT 
 
 THE Officers' kit and the long low limbers, 
 
 The Maltese cart and the mules go by 
 With a sparkle of paint and speckless timbers, 
 
 With a glitter of steel to catch the eye ; 
 But the things I like are the four black chimneys 
 
 And the smoke-tails scattering down the 
 
 wind, 
 
 For these are the Cookers, the Company 
 Cookers, 
 
 The cosy old Cookers that crawl behind. 
 
 The Company Cooks are mired and messy, 
 Their cheeks are black but their boots are 
 
 not ; 
 The Colonel says they must be more dressy, 
 
 And the General says he'll have them shot ; 
 They hang their packs on the four black 
 
 chimneys, 
 They're a grubby disgrace, but we don't 
 
 mind 
 
 As long as the Cookers, the jolly black Cookers, 
 The filthy old Cookers are close behind. 
 75
 
 76 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 For it's only the Cooks can make us perky 
 
 When the road is rainy and cold and steep, 
 When the songs die down and the step gets 
 
 jerky, 
 
 And the Adjutant's horse is fast asleep ; 
 And it's bad to look back for the four black 
 
 chimneys 
 
 But never a feather of smoke to find, 
 For it means that the Cookers, the crazy old 
 
 Cookers, 
 The rickety Cookers are ditched behind. 
 
 The Company Cook is no great fighter 
 
 And there's never a medal for him to wear, 
 Though he camps in the shell-swept waste, 
 poor blighter, 
 
 And many a Cook has " copped it " there ; 
 But the boys go over on beans and bacon, 
 
 And Tommy is best when Tommy has dined, 
 So here's to the Cookers, the plucky old Cookers, 
 
 And the sooty old Cooks that waddle behind.
 
 THE GERMAN GRAVES 
 
 I WONDER are there roses still 
 
 In Ablain St. Nazaire, 
 And crosses girt with daffodil 
 
 In that old garden there. 
 I wonder if the long grass waves 
 
 With wild-flowers just the same 
 Where Germans made their soldiers' graves 
 
 Before the English came ? 
 
 The English set those crosses straight 
 
 And kept the legends clean ; 
 The English made the wicket-gate 
 
 And left the garden green ; 
 And now who knows what regiments dwell 
 
 In Ablain St. Nazaire ? 
 But I would have them guard as well 
 
 The graves we guarded there. 
 
 So do not tear those fences up 
 And drive your waggons through, 
 
 Or trample rose and buttercup 
 As careless feet may do ; 
 77
 
 78 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 For I have friends where Germans tread 
 
 In graves across the line, 
 And as I do towards their dead 
 
 So may they do to mine. 
 
 And when at last the Prussians pass 
 
 Among those mounds and see 
 The reverent cornflowers crowd the grass 
 
 Because of you and me, 
 They'll give perhaps one humble thought 
 
 To all the " English fools " 
 Who fought as never men have fought 
 
 But somehow kept the rules.
 
 THE WINDMILL 
 
 A SONG OF VICTORY 
 
 YES, it was all like a garden glowing 
 
 When first we came to the hill-top there, 
 And we laughed to know that the Bosch was 
 going, 
 
 And laughed to know that the land was fair ; 
 Acre by acre of green fields sleeping, 
 
 Hamlets hid in the tufts of wood, 
 And out of the trees were church-towers 
 peeping, 
 
 And away on a hillock the Windmill stood. 
 
 Then, ah, then, "'twas a land worth winning, 
 And now there is naught but the naked 
 
 clay, 
 
 But I can remember the Windmill spin- 
 ning, 
 
 And the four sails shone in the sun that 
 day. 
 
 But the guns came after and tore the hedges 
 And stripped the spinneys and churned the 
 
 plain, 
 
 And a man walks now on the windy ledges, 
 And looks for a feather of green in vain ; 
 79
 
 8o THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Acre by acre the sad eye traces 
 
 The rust-red bones of the earth laid bare, 
 And the sign-posts stand in the market-places 
 
 To say that a village was builded there. 
 
 But better the French fields stark and 
 
 dying 
 
 Than ripe for a conqueror's fat content, 
 And I can remember the mill-sails flying, 
 Yet 1 cheered with the rest when the 
 Windmill went. 
 
 Away to the east the grass-land surges 
 
 Acre by acre across the line, 
 And we must go on till the end like scourges, 
 Though the wilderness stretch from sea to 
 
 Rhine ; 
 
 But I dream some days of a great reveille, 
 When the buds shall burst in the Blasted 
 
 Wood, 
 
 And the children chatter in Death-Trap Alley, 
 And a windmill stand where the Windmill 
 stood. 
 
 And we that remember the Windmill 
 
 spinning, 
 
 We may go under, but not in vain, 
 For our sons shall come in the new begin- 
 ning 
 And see that the Windmill spins again.
 
 THE GREEN ESTAMINET 
 
 THE old men sit by the chimney-piece and drink 
 
 the good red wine 
 And tell great tales of the S&ixante-Dix to the 
 
 men from the English line, 
 And Madame sits in her old arm-chair and sighs 
 
 to herself all day 
 So Madeleine serves the soldiers in the Green 
 
 Estaminet. 
 
 For Madame wishes the War was won and speaks 
 
 of a strange disease, 
 And Pierre is somewhere about Verdun, and 
 
 Albert on the seas ; 
 Le Patron, 'e is soldat too, but long time prison- 
 
 nier 
 So Madeleine serves the soldiers in the Green 
 
 Estaminet. 
 
 She creeps downstairs when the black dawn 
 
 scowls and helps at a neighbour's plough. 
 She rakes the midden and feeds the fowls and 
 
 milks the lonely cow, 
 She mends the holes in the Padre's clothes and 
 
 keeps his billet gay 
 And she also serves the soldiers in the Green 
 
 Estaminet. 
 
 Si
 
 82 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 The smoke grows thick and the wine flows free 
 
 and the great round songs begin, 
 And Madeleine sings in her heart, maybe, and 
 
 welcomes the whole world in ; 
 But I know that life is a hard, hard thing, and 
 
 I know that her lips look grey, 
 Though she smiles as she serves the soldiers in the 
 
 Green Estaminet. 
 
 But many a tired young English lad has learned 
 
 his lesson there, 
 To smile and sing when the world looks bad, 
 
 " for, Monsieur, c'est la guerre." 
 Has drunk her honour and made his vow to 
 
 fight in the same good way 
 That Madeleine serves the soldiers in the Green 
 
 Estaminet. 
 
 A big shell came on a windy night, and half of 
 
 the old house went, 
 But half of the old house stands upright, and 
 
 Mademoiselle's content ; 
 The shells still fall in the Square sometimes, 
 
 but Madeleine means to stay, 
 So Madeleine serves the soldiers still in the 
 
 Green Estaminet.
 
 COUVRONS 
 
 AUGUSTUS was a plucky little thing, 
 But so ill-made for purposes of war 
 
 That never a crisis could persuade the KIN T G 
 To put him into any kind of corps ; 
 
 So, failing sadly to unsheathe the sword, 
 
 He got a billet on the Drainage Board. 
 
 The years rolled by. His friends received 
 
 V.C.'s, 
 
 And D.S.O.'s, and multitudes of Bars, 
 And all their clothes were covered by degrees 
 With braid and badge, with chevrons and 
 
 with stars ; 
 
 The only wear that showed what he had done 
 Were two twin elbows shining in the sun. 
 
 And then the coupons came ; but he used none, 
 For always in his other coat they lay, 
 
 Or else he had not heart to squander one, 
 And, when he had, all meatless was the day 
 
 A common tale, but this is what is sad, 
 
 That in this case it drove the young man mad. 
 83
 
 84 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 Or so I gather, for I met him last 
 
 With four strange objects to his sleeve 
 
 attached ; 
 He said, " I may not be the soldier-caste, 
 
 But nowhere is my patriot spirit matched, 
 Of which these emblems eloquently speak, 
 " The coupons which I did not use last week"
 
 WHEN all the land was waking up to war 
 
 And thousands rushed to put a tunic on, 
 Young Jimmy sat in drinking-shops and swore 
 He'd be in civvies when the world had gone ; 
 He had no use for patriotic stuff, 
 
 And what was Belgium when a man had 
 
 beer ? 
 
 " Just wait until they take you by the scruff, 
 But never volunteer." 
 
 Yet next week saw him sweating with the rest, 
 Presenting arms and padding it for leagues ; 
 He did the rifle business with a zest, 
 
 But what he couldn't stomach was fatigues ; 
 
 Yet when the Sergeant wanted some one quick 
 
 Young Jimmy was the first to answer, 
 
 " Here ! " 
 
 Though afterwards he'd say it made him sick 
 " Don't ever volunteer" 
 
 Young Jimmy was a terror at the Front 
 For digging jobs and bombing and patrols, 
 
 Though all along he said, " A stunt's a stunt, 
 But don't go asking for a brace of holes." 
 7 85
 
 86 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 And then one night he tried too big a thing 
 
 I saw him on his stretcher at the rear 
 And what I think the lad was whispering 
 
 Was, " Never volunteer" 
 
 Old soldiers sit and grumble in the barns 
 
 And tell their wisdom to the young men 
 
 round, 
 
 And this is all the burden of their yarns 
 " Don't do a blessed thing until you're 
 
 bound " ; 
 
 But when there's something dirty to be done 
 It's wondrous how this wisdom disappears ; 
 Of all the multitude I don't know one 
 Who never volunteers.
 
 THE TIDE 
 
 To THE ROYAL NAVAL DIVISION 
 APRIL, 1918. 
 
 THIS is a last year's map ; 
 
 I know it all so well, 
 Stream and gully and trench and sap, 
 
 Hamel and all that hell ; 
 See where the old lines wind ; 
 
 It seems but yesterday 
 We left them many a league behind 
 
 And put the map away. 
 
 " Never again," we said, 
 
 " Shall we sit in the Kentish Caves ; 
 Never again will the night-mules tread 
 
 Over the Beaucourt graves ; 
 They shall have Peace," we dreamed 
 
 " Peace and the quiet sun," 
 And over the hills the French folk streamed 
 
 To live in the land we won. 
 
 But the Bosch has Beaucourt now ; 
 
 It is all as it used to be 
 Airmen peppering Thiepval brow, 
 
 Death at the Danger Tree ; 
 8?
 
 88 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 The tired men bring their tools 
 
 And dig in the old holes there ; 
 The great shells spout in the Ancre pools, 
 
 The lights go up from Serre. 
 
 And the regiment came, they say, 
 
 Back to the selfsame land 
 And fought like men in the same old way 
 
 Where the cookers used to stand ; 
 And I know not what they thought 
 
 As they passed the Puisieux Road, 
 And over the ground where FREYBERG fought 
 
 The tide of the grey men flowed. 
 
 But I think they did not grieve, 
 
 Though they left by the old Bosch line 
 Many a cross they loathed to leave, 
 
 Many a mate of mine ; 
 I know that their eyes were brave, 
 
 I know that their lips were stern, 
 For these went back at the seventh wave, 
 
 But they wait for the tide to turn.
 
 THE VOYAGE OF H.M.S. PRESIDENT 
 A DREAM 
 
 [Mr. Punch means no disrespect to H.M.S. President, 
 which, being moored in the Thames off Bouverie Street, he 
 has always looked upon as his guardship, but he has often 
 wondered what would happen if only a few thousands of 
 the officers and men borne on her books were to issue 
 from the Admiralty and elsewhere but especially from 
 the Admiralty and go on board their ship ; hence the 
 disquieting dream that follows.] 
 
 IT was eighteen bells in the larboard watch 
 
 with a neap-tide running free, 
 And a gale blew out of the Ludgate Hills when 
 
 the President put to sea ; 
 An old mule came down Bouverie Street to 
 
 give her a helping hand, 
 And I didn't think much of the ship as such, 
 
 but the crew was something grand. 
 
 The bo'sun stood on a Hoxton bus and blew 
 
 the Luncheon Call, 
 And the ship's crew came from the four wide 
 
 winds, but chiefly from Whitehall ; 
 They came like the sand on a wind-swept strand. 
 
 like shots from a Maxim gun, 
 And the old mule stood with the tow-rope on 
 
 and said, " It can't be done'."
 
 90 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 With a glitter of wiggly braid they came, with 
 
 a clatter of forms and files, 
 The little A.P.'s they swarmed like bees, the 
 
 Commodores stretched for miles ; 
 Post-Captains came with hats in flame, and 
 
 Admirals by the ell, 
 And which of the lot. was the biggest pot there 
 
 was never a man could tell. 
 
 They choked the staggering quarter-deck and 
 
 did the thing no good ; 
 They hung like tars on the mizzen-spars (or 
 
 those of the crowd that could) ; 
 Far out of view still streamed the queue when 
 
 the moke said, " Well, I'm blowed 
 If I'll compete with the 'ole damn Fleet," and 
 
 he pushed off down the road. 
 
 And the great ship she sailed after him, though 
 
 the Lord knows how she did, 
 With her gunwales getting a terrible wetting 
 
 and a brace of her stern sheets hid, 
 When up and spoke a sailor-bloke and he said, 
 
 " It strikes me queer, 
 And I've sailed the sea in the R.N.V. this five 
 
 and -forty year ; 
 
 " But a ship as can't 'old 'arf 'er crew, why, 
 
 what sort of a ship is 'er ? 
 And oo's in charge of the pore old barge if 
 
 dangers do occur ?
 
 VOYAGE OF H.M.S. PRESIDENT 91 
 
 And I says to you, I says, ' Eave to, until this 
 
 point's agreed ' ; " 
 And some said, " Why ? " and the rest, " Ay, 
 
 ay," but the mule he paid no heed. 
 
 So the old beast hauled and the Admirals 
 
 bawled and the crew they fought like cats, 
 And the ship went dropping along past Wapping 
 
 and down by the Plumstead Flats ; 
 But the rest of the horde that wasn't aboard 
 
 they trotted along the bank, 
 Or jumped like frogs from the Isle of Dogs, or 
 
 fell in the stream and sank. 
 
 But while they went by the coast of Kent up 
 
 spoke an aged tar 
 " A joke's a joke, but this 'ere moke is going a 
 
 bit too far ; 
 I can tell by the motion we're nearing the ocean 
 
 and that's too far for me " ; 
 But just as he spoke the tow-rope broke and 
 
 the ship sailed out to sea. 
 
 And somewhere out on the deep, no doubt, 
 
 they probe the problems through 
 Of who's in charge of the poor old barge and 
 
 what they ought to do ; 
 And the great files flash and the dockets crash 
 
 and the inkwells smoke like sin, 
 While many a U-boat tells the tale how the 
 
 President did her in.
 
 92 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 For many have tried to pierce her hide and 
 
 flung torpedoes at her, 
 But the vessel, they found, was barraged round 
 
 with a mile of paper matter ; 
 The whole sea swarms with Office Forms and 
 
 the U-boats stick like glue, 
 So nothing can touch the President much, for 
 
 nothing at all gets through. 
 
 But never, alack, will the ship come back, for 
 the President she's stuck too.
 
 STORIES FOR CIVILIANS 
 
 THE FLY 
 
 HAVE I been at the Front ! O Lor' ! 
 
 Was I over the bags ? You bet. 
 They tell me I won the mouldy war 
 
 At the Battle of Nouvillette ; 
 The bombs was terrible thick 
 
 And the shells was mountain-high, 
 And many a Bosch went back to Base, 
 But I can't say much about what took place, 
 
 For / had a fly in my eye. 
 
 We were just getting up to Fritz 
 
 When the horrible thing occurred, 
 And bang in my eye the blighter sits, 
 
 The size of a well-fed bird ; 
 " Come on," the officer says ; 
 
 I says to him, " ' By-and-by ' ; 
 It's all very well to say, ' Come on ! ' 
 I would if my arms and legs were gone, 
 
 But I've got a fly in my eye." 
 
 Have you been on a bicycle, sir, 
 
 And copped it proper the same, 
 When the world was only a misty blur 
 
 And your eye like a red-hot flame, 
 93
 
 94 THE BOMBER GIPSY 
 
 So that you wept great tears, 
 
 So that you longed to die ? 
 Well, think what it is when there happens to be 
 A battle you specially came to see, 
 
 And then get a fly in your eye. 
 
 They say as there ain't no doubt 
 
 What I ought to have gone and done 
 Turned my upper lid inside out 
 
 And over the under one ; 
 But I tell you the bombs was thick, 
 
 And never a man said " Hi ! 
 Just monkey about with your upper lid " ; 
 So I blew my nose and I wept, I did, 
 
 And I still had a fly in my eye. 
 
 And then, sir, I just went mad, 
 
 I groped for my trusty hyp, 
 And I laid about like a Tyneside lad 
 
 With a good blind circular swipe ; 
 Thoy tell me I killed ten Huns 
 
 And laid out Corporal Fry ; 
 The Huns they took to their heels and fled. 
 And even the Company wished me dead, 
 
 And I still had a fly in my eye. 
 
 I fell on my poor old face, 
 
 I lay in a hole and swore ; 
 And now they call me a shell-shock case 
 
 And tell me I won the War ;
 
 STORIES FOR CIVILIANS 95 
 
 They gave me the D.C.M., 
 
 And that's why I seem so shy. 
 But this is the truth I've told to you, 
 And you never can tell what a man won't do 
 
 With a darned great fly in his eye.
 
 A SONG OF PLENTY. 
 
 The shelling's cruel bad, my son, 
 But don't you look too black, 
 For every blessed German one 
 He gets a dozen back 
 But I remember the days 
 
 When shells were terrible few, 
 And never the guns could bark and blaze 
 
 The same as they do for you. 
 But they sat in the swamp behind, my boy, 
 
 and prayed for a tiny shell, 
 While Fritz, if he had the mind, my boy, could 
 
 give us a first-class hell ; 
 And I know that a 5.9 looks bad to a bit of a 
 
 London kid, 
 
 But I tell you yiu were a lucky lad to come out 
 when you did. 
 
 Plenty of sand-bags now, my son, 
 
 Plenty of good trench stores, 
 Plenty of wire to teach the Hun 
 To have these mouldy wars 
 But I remember a day 
 
 When stores were terrible few, 
 And we'd nothing to keep the swine away 
 The same as there is for you. 
 96
 
 A SONG OF PLENTY 97 
 
 Ditches then at the best, my boy, and a parapet 
 
 all in rags, 
 And many a man went West, my boy, for lack 
 
 of a few score bags ; 
 And it's all the same to an English lad that's 
 
 fighting for the KING, 
 But you ought to be just a trifle glad you've 
 
 plenty of everything. 
 
 Up in the line again, my son, 
 And dirty work, no doubt, 
 But when the dirty work is done 
 They'll take the Regiment out 
 But I remember a day 
 
 When men were terrible few 
 And we hadn't reserves a mile away, 
 
 The same as there are for you ; 
 But fourteen days at a stretch, my boy, and 
 
 nothing about relief ; 
 Fight and carry and fetch, my boy, with rests 
 
 exceeding brief ; 
 And rotten as all things sometimes are, they're 
 
 not as they used to be, 
 
 And you ought to thank your lucky star you 
 didn't come out with me.
 
 FATE 
 
 A SONG OF WISDOM 
 
 They tell you it ain't no good 
 
 A-wondering when you'll die, 
 Or lying low as a soldier should 
 
 When aereoplanes is by ; 
 For whether it comes hi a sudden way 
 
 Or lingering, long and late, 
 You won't go under until the day 
 
 That's settled before by Fate. 
 
 Ah, well, and it may be true 
 
 But the lads I like to see 
 Are the ones that do as they're told to do 
 
 And stay where they ought to be ; 
 For Fate may fix on a far-off date 
 
 And a death of an easy kind, 
 But it ain't no use encouraging Fate 
 
 To change her feminine mind. 
 
 So I keep my rifle clean, 
 
 And I use my eyes and ears, 
 And I don't go wandering off the scene 
 
 A-looking tor sooveneers ; 
 98
 
 FATE 99 
 
 And maybe the bullet that bears my name 
 
 Is meant for a distant day, 
 But I don't get playing the idiot game 
 
 When the other ones come my way. 
 
 I've been out many a day, 
 
 And seen too many a mate 
 With a leg or an arm blown clean away 
 
 By a thing he thought was Fate. 
 But when six men get playing about 
 
 With a rusty old bomb gone bad, 
 Then what is it knocks the six men out ? 
 
 Not Fate, but Folly, my lad. 
 
 And it's better alive than dead 
 
 You'll serve the old platoon, 
 So try to do as the officer said, 
 
 And not to die too soon. 
 Though a man can't add to his earthly span, 
 
 It's a thing worth trying to do, 
 You take good care of yourself, young man, 
 
 And Fate won't matter to you.
 
 Printed in Great Britain by Jarrold &> Sons, Ltd. 
 Norwich.
 
 A 000 139 135 8