DEVINE came back the other day.We'd planned a great home-comin'.No long trombone we had to play,No fine, heroic drummin'.With two sticks and a milk-can BornePut up a martial clatter,While Carter blew a bullock-hornSays Tom Devine, with healthy scorn;"Gorstruth! what is the matter?"
We set three colored petticoatsFrom Baker's chimneys blowin'('Tis not the bravest flag that floats,Yet 'twas the finest goin');We cheered our hero all we knew,No song of praise neglectin',To show our pride as he limped throughHe merely spat and snorted, "Who"The deuce are yous expectin'?"
They lured him to my shop somehow,And sued for news of battle.Says Tom: "Who rides the mail track now?Who herdin' Stringer's cattle?"A dint the Turk put in his head.He covers with a ringlet.He'd won a medal, so we read."I might 'ave 'ad it pinched," he said-"I've sewn it in my singlet!"
Says Cole "But, 'struth, you must 'ave seenA fearful swag of scrappin'."And Tom agrees "Where men are keenThat's pretty sure to 'appen.One night a little bloke from HayWho plugged a Pentridge warderGot such a doin' that at day,Amazed, they ticked him for a strayDistinguished Service Order.
"Then Sydney Bob was rather vexedWith Green—who'd pinched his braces,That was 'continued in our next'In half a score of places.McCubbin threw his grub at Lea(You know how sticky stew is);They fought till neither man could see.You talk of fight—Gorstrike me, weSaw stacks of it at Suez!"
BACK again 'n' nothin' missin' barrin'arf a hand,Where an Abdul bit me, chokin' in the HolyLand.'Struth, they got some dirty fighters in theMoslem pack,Bull-nosed slugs their sneakin' snipers spatters in yer backBlows a gapin' sort iv pit inWhat a helephant could sit in.Bounced their bullets, if yeh please,Like the 'oppers in a cheese,Off me rubber pelt in droves,Moppin' up the other coves.So here's me once more at large inBay-street, Port, a bloomin' Sargin'."Cri, it jumbo." "Have a beer.""Wot-o, Anzac; you're a dear."
Back once more on Moley's corner, loafin' likea dook;Back on Bourke, me livin' image, not aslinkin' spook;Solid ez the day I started, medals on mechest,Switchin' with me pert melacca, swankin'with the bestWhere the little wimmen's flowin',With their veils 'n' ribbons blowin'-See their eyes of bloo 'n' brownButterflyin' 'bout the town!Back at 'ome-oh, 'struth, it's good!Long, cold lagers from the wood,Ev'ry cobber jumpin' at you,Strangers duckin' in to bat you-"Good ole Jumbo, how're you?""'Ello, soldier, howja do?"
Back at Grillo's where the nigger googs hiswhitey eyes,Plucks his black ole greasy banjo while thecod-steak fries;Fish 'n' chips, a pint iv local, and the tidygirlDancin' glad attendance on yeh 'zif yeh wasan earl;Trailin' round the blazin' city,Feelin' all content 'n' pretty,Where the smart procession goes,Prinked 'n' polished to the shows,One among the happy drive-'Sworth the world to be alive!Dames ez smilin' ez a mother,Ev'ry man ver fav'rit brother:"'Ello, Jumbo, how is it ?""Arr there, soldier! Good 'n' fit?"
Takin' hozone at St. Kilder's good enoughfor me,Seein' Summer and the star-blink simmer inthe sea;Cantin' up me bloomin' cady, toyin' with acig.,Blowin' out me pout a little, chattin' wide 'n'bigWhen there's skirt around to skite to.Say, 'oo has a better right to?Done me bit 'n' done it well,Got the tag iv plate to tell;Square Gallipoli surviver,With a touch iv Colonel's guyver."Sargin' Jumbo, good ole son!""Soldier, soldier, you're the one!"
Back again, a wounded hero, moochin' up 'n'down,Feelin' 'sthough I'd got a fond arf-Nelson onthe town;Never was so gay, so 'elp me, never felt sokind;Fresh from 'ell a paradise ain't very hard tofind.After filth, 'n' flies, 'n' slaughterFat brown babies in the water,Singin' people on the sandMakes a boshter Happy Land!War what toughened hone 'n' hideTurned a feller soft inside!Great it is, the 'earty greetin's,Friendly digs, 'n' cheerful meetin's"'Ello, Jumbo, howja do?""Soldier, soldier, how're you?"
THREE other soldier blokes 'n' me packed'ome from foreign lands;Bit into each the God of Battles' everlastin'brands.They limped in time, 'n' coughed in tune, 'n'one was short an ear,'N' one was short a tier of ribs 'n' all wasshort of beer.I speaks up like a temp'rance gent,But ever since the sky was bentThe thirst of man 'as never yet bin squenchedwith argument.
Bill's skull was welded all across, Jim 'ad aneye in soak,Sam 'obbled on a patent leg, 'n' every manwas broke;They sang a song of "Mother" with their facestitled up.Says Bill-o: "'Ere's yer 'eroes, sling thebloomin' votive cup!We got no beer, the soup was bad-Now oo will stand the soldier ladThe swag of honest liquor that for years hehasn't 'ad?"
Sez I: "Respeck yer uniform! Rememberoo you are!"They'd pinched a wicker barrer, 'arf a pram'n' 'arf a car.In this ole Bill-o nestled 'neath a blanket, onhis faceA someone's darlin' sorter look, a touch ivboy'ood's grace.The gentle ladies stopped to 'ear,'N' dropped a symperthetic tear,A dollar or a deener for the pore haff1ictdear.
The others trucked the wounded to a hentranceup a lane.I sez: "Sich conduck's shameful!" Bill-otook to ease his painOne long 'un and another. The conductorpicked his brand;The gripman lent his countenance to wot he'ad in 'and.And when they moved their stand 'twasSamLay pale 'n' peaceful in the pram,'N' twenty flappers stroked his paw, 'n' saidhe was a lamb.
The gathered in the tokens and they blooed'em as above,While Jim-o done the hinvalid 'oom Sammyhad to shove.Sez I: "No noble 'eroes what's bin fightin'for their kingShould smirch theirselves by doin' this dis-'onerable thing."But fine old gents 'n' donahs primThey stopped 'n' slid the beans to Jim.You betcher life I let 'im hear just what Ithough of 'im.
Nine, g.m. at St. Kilder, saw the finish of theprowl.Each 'ad his full-'n'-plentv, and was blowin'in the tow'l.As neither bloke cud stand alone, they leaned'n' argufiedWhich was the patient sufferer oo's turn it wasto ride.Each 'eld a san'wich and a can.Sez I: "This shouldn't 'ave began-'Tain't conduck wot it worthy of a soldier anda man."
I cud 'a' cried with injured pride. Afore apush the threeGot scrappin', vague 'n' foolish, which thecripple boy should be.Sam slips his scientific leg, 'n' flings it in thedrain-"I'll auto 'ome," he sez, "or never see me'ome again."But I am thinkin' 'ard oo heTucked 'elpiess in the pram might be.Comes sudden reckerlection. Great Gohan-ners, it is me!
HAULED I was from out the tipFritz made with his demonstration,All broke up, a fractured hipIn me Darby Kell a ripSettn' up a cool sensationLike excessive ventilation
One 'and cluttered up a treat-On me oath you wouldn't know itFrom a 'andsome plate of meat.They had sorter pied me feet,And a bullet of the foe hitWhere no decent bloke could show it.
'Arf a year they've botched me now;Ev'ry scientific schemerIn the cor' has faked me prow,Soled 'n' heeled a bloke somehow-Gawd, the last one was a screamer.Wirin' up me flamin' femur!
Comes a guy and pipes you square,Gogglin' at you through his glasses,Swings you in the barber's chair,Tilts you this end up with care,Lets you have a whiff of gassesChattin' off-hand with the lasses.
Then he slices clean 'n' swift,Like a cobbler cuts his leather,Gives the splintered knob a lift-S'elp me tater, it's a giftHow they glues you all together,Sayin' it's bin nicer weather!
Surgeon wipes his 'ands, a verseChort1e softly as he pitchesProbes and sponges to the nurse,Thinks the lunch might have bin worse;Close your little gap he hitches,Whistlin' as he jabs the stitches.
I'm caught in with fiddle-strings,Stuck about with bits 'n' patches,Fixed with ligatures 'n' springs,Lath 'n' plastered, swung in slingsSkewered with little wooden matches,Hung with hinges, knobs 'n' latches.
Till I lay behind me screen,Serious 'n' sober one day,Satisfied 'n' all serene,'Arf a man 'n' 'arf machineWhat they winds up ev'ry Monday'N' it tilts all ways by Sunday.
'Ome again I'll come, a neat,Semi-autymatic loafer,Number up, 'n' all complete,Creakin' round on Collins Street,With a licence (which I'll owe for)My own car and my own shofer!
I SLUNG me khaki suit to-day.Civilian now front heel to chinI 'op round on a single shin;At home in peace I'm bound to stay.'N' so they've took me duds away.It 'urt like strippin' off me skin!
I put it on three years ago,The ole brown rig. There wasn't thenA prouder chicken in the pen.Jist twenty turned, me nibs you'd knowFor how I give me chest a throw,A man among the best of men.
Me little no the touch I give,Me chin's ez solid ez a rock,'N' level with the Town 'All clock,A five-inch grin across me chiv."Lor' love us, this is how to live,"Sez I, 'n' felt I owned the Block.
Glad eyes was ever on the lurk,'N' little 'earts was thumpin' warmFor nippers trainin' with the swarmTo swat ole Kaiser Bill, or workA toe-hold on the heathen Turk.Fair dink, I loved the uniform!
I soused mine in the brine that dayWhen Tophet spilt, 'n' in the roarOf shells that split the sea 'n' toreOur boats to chips, we broke anyUp through the pelt of leaden spray,'N' got our first real taste of war.
They shot me tunic all to rags;Then in the perpendic'lar spreeMe trousers wore off to the knee.The right-abouts of many bagsWas ground off in the dust 'n' cragsA-sittin' in Gallipoli.
I wore the khaki on the Somme-Most time 'twas jist a coat of mud;I once come through the battle scudStripped mother-naked by a bomb;'N' once it' took its color fromMe own 'n' one good cobber's blood.
They cheered the khaki through the streetWhen we come home with pipers gay,But now I'm jist a bloke in grey.Harf-lost, lob-sided, incomplete,It's nothin' but me spook you'll meet,Ghost-walkin' in the light o' day.
WE'RE more than partners, Ned 'n' me,Two sections permanently righted.Yiv seen us on the mooch, maybe,Like remnants lovin'ly united.Ned's only got one stump, the left;By 'appy chance I've got its brother,Of his two dukes he's been bereft;My left was mauled, 'n' had to go,It fortunitly 'appens though,I kept the other.
Ned lost one ear, the left, 'n' struth,He dropped the correspondin' weeper.A Hun he crooled me lovely youthBy bombin' out me right 'and peeper.He done a guy too with me ear,The right, 'n' now I dunno whether'Twas Fate's intention, butt it's clearWhen trimmed each as the other's mate'Twas up to us two, soon or late,To get together.
'Board ship there's me like arf a peach,'N' Ned's the other arf, but soon itStrikes' Bill Carkeek that side by eachWe makes a satisfact'rv unit.A 'andy cobber on the shipFakes up for us a set of clutchesThat damps us firmly hip to hip.In seven minutes we can pegThe mile out on a timber leg'N' two steel crutches.
We now go halves, like Si'mese twins,'N' as a team I hold we're bosker—The blighter on the street that grinsHas got to deal with Edwin-Oscar.At balls we two-step, waltz, 'n' swing,'N' proppin' walls no one has seen us.When at the bar I never ringThe double on ole Ned. For bothOne hand must serve, 'n', on me oath,It's fair between us.
We jolt one knife 'n' fork, 'n' findOne horse enough for both to ride on,And neither feller rides behind.Some sez we put a pile of side on.Well, where's the single-handed braceWill take us on? We'll put the peg in,Train fine, 'n' jump, or box, or race,Or wrestle them; 'n' more than thatTo clinch a match, so 'elp me cat,We'll throw a leg in!
He's five feet eight, I'm little less;He's Roman, I'm a sort of Proddy;But no sectarian bitternessWill disunite this sec'lar body—We're hitched for good, we're two in one.Our taste's the same, from togs to tipple.But, straight, it makes me sad, ole son,To think if he should croak or me,The pore bloke what is left might beA bloomin' cripple.
A QUAINT old gabled cottage sleeps be-tween the raving hills.To right and left are livid strife, but on thedeep, wide sillsThe purple pot-flowers swell and glow, ando'er the walls and eavesPrinked creeper steals caressing hands, thepoplar drips its leaves.Within the garden hot and sweetFair form and woven color meet,While down the clear, cool stones, 'tweenbanks with branch and blossom gay,A little, bridged, blind rivulet goes touchingout its way.
Peace lingers hidden from the knife, the tear-ing blinding shell,Where falls the spattered sunlight on a lichen-covered well.No voice is here, no fall of feet, no smoke liftscool and grey,But on the granite stoop a cat blinks vaguelyat the day.From hill to hill across the valeStorms man's terrific iron gale;The cot roof on a brooding dove recks not thedistant gun.A brown hen scolds her chickens chasingmidges in the sun.
Now down the eastward slope they come.No call of life, no beat of drum,But stealthily, and in the green,Low hid, with rifle and machine,Spit hate and death; and red blood flowsTo shame the whiteness of the rose.
Crack followes crash; the bestial roarOf gastly and insensate warBreaks on the cot. A rending stoke,The red roof springs, and in the smokeAnd spume of shells the riven wallsPile where the splintered elm-tree spawls.
From westward, streaming down hill,Shot-ravaged, thinned, but urgent still,The brown, fierce, blooded Anzacs sweep,And Hell leaps a up. The lilies weepStrange crimson tears. Tight-lipped and mute,The grim, gaunt soldiers stab and shoot.
It passes. Frantic, fleeing death,Wild-eyed, foam-flecked and every breathA labored agony, like deerThat feel the hounds' keen teeth, appearThe Prussian men, and, wild to slayThe hunters press upon their prey.
Cries fade and fitful shots die down. TheTumbled ruin nowSmoke faintly in the summer light, and liftsThe trodden bough.A sigh stirs in the trampled green, and heldAnd tainted redThe rill creeps o'er a dead man's face andsteals along its bed.One deep among the lilacs thrownShock all the stillness with a moan.Peace like the snowflake lights again whereutter silence lies,And softly with white finger-tips she seals asoldier eyes.
A LETTER came from Dick to-day;A greeting glad he sends to me.He tells of one more bloody fray—Of how with bomb and rifle theyHave put their mark for all to seeAcross rock-ribbed Gallipoli.
"How are you doing? Hope all's well,I in great nick, and like the work.Though there may be a brimstone smell,And other pungent hints of Hell,Not Satan's self can make us shirkOur task of hitting up the Turk.
"You bet old Slacks is not half badHe knows his business in a scrim.He gets cold steel, or we are gladTo stop him with a bullet, lad.Or sling a bomb his hair to trim;But, straight, we throw no mud at him.
"He fights and falls, and comes again,And knocks our charging lines about.He's game at heart, and tough in grain,And canters through the leaded rain,Chock full of mettle—not a doubt'T will do us proud to put him out.
"But that's our job; to see it throughWe've made our minds up, come what may,This noon we had our work to do.The shells were dropping two by two;We fairly felt their bullets playAmong our hair for half a day.
"One clipped my ear, a red-hot kiss,Another beggar chipped my shin.They pass you with a vicious hissThat makes you duck; but, hit or miss,It isn't in the Sultan's skinTo shift Australia's cheerful grin.
"My oath, old man, though we were proneWe didn't take it lying down.I got a dozen on my own—All dread of killing now is flown;It is the game, and, hard and brown,We're wading in for freedom's crown.
"Big guns are booming as I write,A lad is singing 'Dolly Grey,'The shells are skipping in the night,And, square and all, I feeling rightFor, whisper, Ned, the fellows sayI did a ripping thing to-day.
"Soon homeward tramping with the band,All notched a bit, and with the prizeOf glory for our native land,I'll see my little sweetheart standAnd smile, her smile, so sweet and wise—With proud tears shining in her eyes.
"Geewhiz! What price your humble whenTriumphant from the last attack,We face a Melbourne crowd again,Tough, happy, battle-proven men,And while the cheer-stormed heavens crackI bring the tattered colors back!". . .A mist is o'er the written lineWhence martial ardor seems to flow;A dull ache holds this heart of mine—Poor boy, he had a vision fine;But grave dust clouds the royal glow;He died in action weeks ago!
He was my friend—I may not weep.My soul goes out to Him who bled;I pray for Christ's compassion deepOn mothers, lovers—all who keepThe woeful vigil, having readThe joyous letters of the dead.
AS bullets come to us they're thin,They're angular, or smooth and fat,Some spiral are, and gimlet in,And some are sharp, and others flat.The slim one pink you clean and neat,The flat ones bat a solid blowMuch as a camel throws his feet,And leave you beastly incomplete.If lucky you don't know it through.
The flitting bullets flow and flock;They twitter as they pass;They're picking at the solid rock,They're rooting in the grass.A tiny ballet swiftly throwsIts gossamer of rust,Brown fairies on their little toesA-dancing in the dust.
You cower down when first they comeWith snaky whispers at your ear;And when like swarming bees they humYou know the tinkling chill of fear.A whining thing will pluck your heel,A whirring insect sting your shin;You shrink to half your size, and feelThe ripples o'er your body seal-'Tis terror walking in your skin!
The bullets pelt like winter hail,The whistle and they sigh,They shrill like cordage in a gale,Like mewing kittens cry;They hiss and spit, they purring come;Or, silent all a span,They rap, as on a slackened drum,The dab that kills a man.
Rage takes you next. All hot your faceThe bitter void, and curses leapFrom pincered teeth. The wide, still spaceWhence all these leaden devil's sweepIs Tophet. Fiends by day and nightAre groping for your heart to sateIn blood their diabolic spite.You shoot in idiot delight,Each winging slug a hymn of hate.
The futile bullets scratch and go,They chortle and the coo.I laugh my scorn, for now I knowThe thing they cannot do.They flit like midges in the sun,But howso thick they beWhat matter, since there is not oneThat God has marked for me!
An Eastern old philosophyCome home at length and passion stills-The thing will be that is to be,And all must come as Heaven wills.Where in the swelter and the flameThe new, hot, shining bullets drip;One in the many has an aim,Inwove a visage and a name-No man may give his fate the slip!
The bullets thrill along the breeze,They drum upon the bags,They tweak your ear, your hair they tease,And peck your sleeve to rags.Their voices may no more annoy-I chortle at the call:The bullet that is mine, my boy,I shall not hear at all!
The war's a flutter very likeThe tickets that we took from Tatt.Quite possibly I'll make a strike;The odds are all opposed to that.Behind the dawn the Furies swayThe mighty globe from which to getThose bullets which throughout the dayWill winners be to break or slay.I have not struck a starter yet
The busy bullets rise and flock;They whistle as they pass;They're chipping at the solid rock,They're skipping in the grass.Out there the tiny dancers throwTheir sober skirts of rust,Brown flitting figures tipping toeAlong the golden dust.
I SAW the Christ down from His cross,A tragic man lean-limbed and tall,But weighed with suffering and loss.His back was to a broken wall,And out upon the tameless worldWas fixed His gaze His piercing eyeBeheld the towns to ruin hurled,And saw the storm of death pass by.
Two thousand years it was since firstHe offered to the race of menHis sovran boon, As one accurstThey nailed Him to the jibbet then,And while they mocked Him for their mirthHe smiled, and from the hill of painTo all the hating tribes of earthHeld forth His wondrous gift again.
To-day the thorns were on His brow,His grief was deeper than before.From ravaged field and city nowArose the screams and reek of war.The black smoke parted. Through the riftGod's sun fell on the b1oody lands.Christ wept, for still His priceless giftHe held within His wounded hands.
HE rode along one splendid noon,When all the hills were lit with Spring,And through the bushland throbbed a croonOf every living, hopeful thing.
Between his teeth a rose he boreAs white as milk, and passing thereHe tossed it with a laugh. I woreIt as it fell among my hair.
No day a-drip with golden rain,No heat with drench of wattle scentCan touch the heart of me againBut with that young, sweet wonder blent.
We wed upon a gusty day,When baffled fury whipped the sea;And now I love the swift, wet playOf wind and rain besetting me.
I took white roses in my hand,A white rose on my forehead shone,For we had come to understandWhite roses bloomed for us alone.
When scarce a year had gone he spedTo fight the wars. With eyes grown grimHe kissed my lips, and whispering said:"The world we must keep sweet for him!"
He wrote of war, the soldier's life."'Tis hard, my dearest, but be brave.I did not make my love my wifeTo be the mother of a slave!"
My babe was born a boy. He hadHis father's eyes, his smile, his hair,And, oh, my soul was brimming glad—It seemed his father's self was there!
But now came one who bade me stillIn holy Heaven put my trust.They'd laid my love beneath the hill,And sealed his eyes with timeless dust.
Against my breast the babe I drew,With strength from him to stay my fears.I fought my fight the long days through;He laughed and dabbled in my tears.
From my poor heart, at which it fedWith tiger teeth, I thrust despair,And faced a world with shadow spreadAnd only echoes in the air.
The winter waned. One eve I went,Led by a kindly hand to seeIn moving scenes the churches rent,The tumbled hill, the blasted lee.
Of soldiers resting by the road,Who smoked and drowsed, a muddy rout,One sprang alert, and forward strode,With eager eyes to seek us out.
His fingers held a rose. He threwThe flower, and waved his cap. In meA frenzy of assurance grew,For, O dear God, 'twas he! 'twas he!
I called aloud. Aloft my childI held, and nearer yet he came;And when he understood and smiled,My baby lisped his father's name.
They say I fell like something dead,But when I woke to morning's glowMy boy sat by me on the bed,And in his hand a rose of snow!
"Late Midshipman John Travers (Chester), aged 16 years. He was mortally wounded early in the action, yet he remained alone in a most exposed post awaiting orders, with his gun's crew dead all round him."
WE told old stories one by one,Brave tales of men who toyed with death,Of wondrous deeds of valor doneIn days of bold Elizabeth."Alas! our British stock," said we,"Is not now what it used to be."
We read of Drake's great sailors, orOf fighting men that Nelson led,Who steered the walls of oak to war."These were our finest souls," we said."Their fame is on the ocean writ,Nor time, nor storm may cancel it.
"The mariners of England thenWere lords of battle and of breeze.The were, indeed the wondrous menWho won for us the shoreless seas,Who took old Neptune's ruling brandAnd set it in Britannia's hand.
"But now," we sighed, "the blood is pale,We're little people of the street,And dare not front the shrilling gale.The sons of England are effete,Of shorter limb and smaller mould,Mere pigmies by the men of old."
Then came the vibrant bugle note.None cowered at the high alarm,The steady fleets were still afloat,And England saw her soldiers arm,And readily, with sober grace.The close-set ranks swung into place.
On sea and shore they fought again,And storied heroes came to life,Once more were added to the slain.Once more found glory in the strife;Again her yeoman sons arose;A wall 'tween Britain and her foes.
The eager lads, with laughing lipsAnd souls elate, where oceans roar,Or planes the eagle's flight eclipse,Give all for her, and come no more;Or where death thunders down the skyBeside their silent guns they lie;
This boy who, while the iron rainsWith seething riot whip the flood,Fights on, till in his heart remainsNo single drop of English blood,Avers the British strain sublime,Outliving Death, outlasting Time!
I SEE grim War, a bestial thing,with swinish tusks to tear;Upon his back the vampires cling,Thin vipers twine among his hair,The tiger's greed is in his jowl,His eye is red with bloody tears,And every obscene beast and fowlFrom out his leprous visage leers.In glowing pride fell fiends arise,And, trampled, God the Father lies.
Not God alone the Demon slays;The hills that swell to Heaven dripWith ooze of murdered men; for daysThe dead drift with the drifting ship,And far as eye may see the plainIs cumbered deep with slaughtered ones,Contorted to the shape of pain,Dissolving 'neath the callous suns,And driven in his foetid breathStill ply the harvesters of Death.
He sits astride an engine dread,And at his touch the awful ballAcross the quaking world is sped,I see a million creatures fall.Beyond the soldiers on the hill,The mother by her basinet.The bolt its mission must fulfil,And in the years that are not yetCreation by the blow is shornOf dimpled hosts of babes unborn!
THE great men framed the fierce decreesEmbroiling State with State;They bit their thumbs across the seasIn diplomatic hate;They lit the pyre whose glare and heatMake Hell itself seem cold;The flames bloomed red above the wheat,Their wild profusion wreathed the street-Then in the smoke and fiery sleetThe common men took hold.
Where Babel was with Bedlam freed,And wide the gates were flung;To chaos, while the anarch breedIn all the world gave tongue,The common men in close array,By mountain, plain and sea,Went outward girded for the fray,On one dear quest, whate'er they payIn blood and pain—the open wayTo keep for Liberty.
The common men who never tire,Unsightly in the mirkOf caking blood and smoke and mire,Push forward with their work;A while in foulest pits entombed,Resistless, still and slow,Burnt, broken, stifled, seeming doomed,Past where the flowers of Satan bloomed,Up gutted hills with shell-breath plumed,The stubborn armies go.
Contending in the shattered skyIn empyrean wars,The sons of simple men out-vieGod's splendid meteors;Where'er the mills of Vulcan roaredAnd blinked against the night,Swart shapes with sweat-washed eyes havestoredThe clean, lean lightnings of the LordTo be a league-long, leaping swordIn this our holy fight.
The small men know the burden well,The dreadful paths they know,With fear and death and torture dwell.And sup and sleep with, woe.They're riven in the shrapnel gust,But; blind and reeling, planAnother blow, a final thrustTo subjugate the tyrant's lust.So, bleeding, blundering in the dust,Men fight and die for MAN.
The Viennese authorities have melted down the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal for guns or muntions. Every poor village has made a similar gift.—Lokal Anzeiger.
THE great bell booms across the town,Reverberant and slow,And drifting from their houses downThe calm-eyed people go.Their feet fall on the portal stonesTheir fathers' fathers trod;And still the bell, with reverent tones,From cottage nooks and purple thronesIs calling souls to God.
The chapel bells with ardor spakeAbove the poplars tall,And perfumed Sabbath seemed to wake.Responsive to their callFrom dappled vale and green hillsideAnd nestling village hivesThe peasants came in simple prideTo hear how their Lord Jesus diedTo sweeten all their lives.
. . .
They boom beyond the battered town;The hills are belching smoke;And valleys charred and ranges brownAre quaking 'neath the stroke.The iron roar to Heaven swells,And domes and steeples nod;Through cities vast and ferny dellsAnd village streets the clamant bellsAre calling souls to God!
THE young lieutenant's face was grey.As came the day.The watchers saw it lifting whiteAnd ghostlike from the pool of night.His eyes were wide and strangely lit.Each thought in that unhallowed pit:"I, too, may seem like one who diesWith wide, set eyes."
He stood so still we thought it death,For through the breathOf reeking shell we came, and fire,To hell, unlit, of blood and mire.Tianced in a chill deliriumWe wondered, though our lips were dumbWhat precious thing his fingers pressedAgainst his breast.
His left hand clutched so lovinglyWhat none might see.All bloodless were his lips beneathThe straight, white, rigid clip of teeth.His eyes turned to the distance dim;Our sleepless eyes were all on him.He stirred; we aped a phantom cheer.The hour was here!
The young lieutenant blew his call."God keep us all!"He whispered softly. Out he led;And over the vale of twisted dead,Close holding that dear thing, he went.On through the storm we followed, bentTo pelt of iron and the rainOf flame and pain.
His wan face like a lodestar glowedDown that black road,And deep among the torn and slainWe drove, and twenty times againHe squared us to the charging hordes.His word was like a hundred swords.And still a hand the treasure pressedAgainst his breast.
Our gain we held. Up flamed the sun."The ridge is won,"He calmly said, and, with a sigh,"Thank God, a man is free to die!"He smiled at this, and so he passed.His secret prize we knew at last,For through his hand the jewel's red,Fierce lustre bled.
DON told me that he loved me dearWhere down the range Whioola pours;And when I laughed and would not hearHe flung away to fight the wars.He flung away—how should he knowMy foolish heart was dancin' so?How should he know that at his wordMy soul was trillin' like a bird?
He went out in the cannon smoke.He did not seek to ask me why.Again each day my poor heart brokeTo see the careless post go by.I cared not for their Emperors—For me there was this in the wars;My brown boy in the shell-clouds dim,And savage devils killin' him!
They told me on the field he fell,And far they bore him from the fight,But he is whole—he will be wellNow in a ward by day and nightA fair, tall nurse with slim, neat handsBy his white bedside smilin' stands;His brow with trailin fingertipsShe soothes, and damps his fevered lips!
I know her not, but I can seeHow blue her great eyes are, and hearThe cooin' of her voice as sheSpeaks gentle comfort to my dear;With love as sweet as mother's careShe heals his wounds, she strokes his hair…O God, could I but let him seeThe hate of her consumin' me!
"A soldier braving disease and death on the battlefield has a seven times better chance of life than a new-born baby."—Secretary of War, U.S.A.
THE Hapless Army from the darkThat lies beyond creation,All blinded by the solar spark,And leaderless in lands forlorn,Come stumbling through the mists of morn;And foes in close formation,With taloned fingers dripping red,Bestrew the sodden world with dead.
The Hapless Army bears no sword;Fell destiny fulfilling,It marches where the murder horde,Amid the fair new urge of life,With poison stream, and shot, and knife,Make carnival of killing.No war above black Hell's abyssKnows evil grim and foul as this.
In pallid hillocks lie the slainThe callous heaven under;Like twisted hieroglyphs of painThey fleck earth to oblivion's brink,As far as human mind may think,Accusing God with thunderOf dreadful silence. Nought it serves—Fate ever calls the doomed reserves!
Still with Death's own monotonyThe innocents are falling,Like dead leaves in a forest dree;And still the conscript armies come.No banners theirs, no beat of drum,No merry bugles calling!Mad ally in the Slayers' train,Man slaps and sorrows for the slain!