When your marrer bone seems 'oller,And you're glad you ain't no taller,And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills;When your skin creeps like a pullet's,And you're duckin' all the bullets,And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills;When your legs seem made of jelly,And you're squeamish in the belly,And you want to turn about and do a bunk:For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it!Don't let your mateys know it—You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk.Of course there's no denyin'That it ain't so easy tryin'To grin and grip your rifle by the butt,When the 'ole world rips asunder,And you sees yer pal go under,As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut;I admit it's 'ard contrivin'When you 'ears the shells arrivin',To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk;But, my lad, you've got to do it,And your God will see you through it,For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk.So stand up, son; look gritty,And just 'um a lively ditty,And only be afraid to be afraid;Just 'old yer rifle steady,And 'ave yer bay'nit ready,For that's the way good soldier-men is made.And if you 'as to die,As it sometimes 'appens, why,Far better die a 'ero than a skunk;A-doin' of yer bit,And so—to 'ell with it,There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk.
"Flowers, only flowers—bring me dainty posies,Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said;So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses,Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed.Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing;Soft into his tired eyes came a little light;Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing;There amid the flowers waited he the night."I would have you raise me; I can see the West then:I would see the sun set once before I go."So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then,Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow.So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling,Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame,Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling;So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came."Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing;There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky.How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging:Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die.I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me;I am battle-broken, all I want is rest.Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me,And a kind lark singing in the golden West."Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting,Just the happy laughter of a little child."So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting;Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled."In the golden peace-time you will tell the storyHow for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . .God bless little children!" So he passed to glory,So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs.
I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.(Look out there, lad! That sniper—'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.)Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud;And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot—but it's blood.And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me;And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals,And even there we 'ad no disagree.For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best,I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid;I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest,I even stood god-farther to the kid.So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?""Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im.'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go,('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim).Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell,But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread.We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle,And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took?I've only got meself, 'e stands for three.I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook;'E alwayswasa better man than me.'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark,And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid;And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark,When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die.'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud.Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky,And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud.And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead,And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand:The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, andZIP!like that—'e's dead,Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun,But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate.You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be doneTill I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate.It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim;Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid,Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im,To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.
There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain.For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall;And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreamingThat in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here;And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb,And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing,And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown;And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too;And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merryIs lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be.And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed?And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist;And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be sayingThat Yvonne is long delaying . . .GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benchesOf the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime;And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weatherWe will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . .(English voice, months later):—"OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME."
"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,On this glittering morn of May?""I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;They're looking for men, they say.""But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;You aren't obliged to go.""I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,And ever so strong, you know.". . . . ."So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,And you're looking so fit and bright.""I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,But I feel that I'm doing right.""God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,You're all of my life, you know.""Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,And I'm awfully proud to go.". . . . ."Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?I watch for the post each day;And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,And it's months since you went away.And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,And I'm keeping it burning brightTill my boy comes home; and here I sitInto the quiet night.". . . . ."What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?No letter again to-day.Why did the postman look so sad,And sigh as he turned away?I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,But a terrible price we've paid:God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;But oh I'm afraid, afraid.". . . . ."They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad:You'll never come back again:(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD,AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad,And you proved in the cruel testOf the screaming shell and the battle hellThat my boy was one of the best."So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad,In the gleam of the evening star,In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,In all sweet things that are.And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,While life is noble and true;For all our beauty and hope and joyWe will owe to our lads like you."
No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh(The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss).And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche,I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us.I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me;And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight;And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree,We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.A-standin' up to the sandbagsIt's funny the thoughts wot come;Starin' into the darkness,'Earin' the bullets 'um;(ZING! ZIP! PING! RIP!'ARK 'OW THE BULLETS 'UM!)A-leanin' against the sandbagsWiv me rifle under me ear,Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-goThan I used to 'ave in a year.I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like meWot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for?'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree,If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war.If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud;If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell;If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood:By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell.Shiverin' up to the sandbags,With a hicicle 'stead of a spine,Don't it seem funny the things you think'Ere in the firin' line:(WHEE! WHUT! ZIZ! ZUT!LORD! 'OW THE BULLETS WHINE!)Hunkerin' down when a star-shellCracks in a sputter of light,You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbagsMost any old time o' night.They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade,Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed;But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made,Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned!There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight:That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name;And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . .But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same.Starin' over the sandbags,Sick of the 'ole damn thing;Firin' to keep meself awake,'Earin' the bullets sing.(HISS! TWANG! TSING! PANG!SAUCY THE BULLETS SING.)Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbagsOf a day when war will cease,When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and meWill clink our mugs in fraternity,And the Brotherhood of Labour will beThe Brotherhood of Peace.
O God, take the sun from the sky!It's burning me, scorching me up.God, can't You hear my cry?'Water! A poor, little cup!'It's laughing, the cursed sun!See how it swells and swellsFierce as a hundred hells!God, will it never have done?It's searing the flesh on my bones;It's beating with hammers redMy eyeballs into my head;It's parching my very moans.See! It's the size of the sky,And the sky is a torrent of fire,Foaming on me as I lieHere on the wire . . . the wire. . . .Of the thousands that wheeze and humHeedlessly over my head,Why can't a bullet come,Pierce to my brain instead,Blacken forever my brain,Finish forever my pain?Here in the hellish glareWhy must I suffer so?Is it God doesn't care?Is it God doesn't know?Oh, to be killed outright,Clean in the clash of the fight!That is a golden death,That is a boon; but this . . .Drawing an anguished breathUnder a hot abyss,Under a stooping skyOf seething, sulphurous fire,Scorching me up as I lieHere on the wire . . . the wire. . . .Hasten, O God, Thy night!Hide from my eyes the sightOf the body I stare and seeShattered so hideously.I can't believe that it's mine.My body was white and sweet,Flawless and fair and fine,Shapely from head to feet;Oh no, I can never beThe thing of horror I seeUnder the rifle fire,Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . .Of night and of death I dream;Night that will bring me peace,Coolness and starry gleam,Stillness and death's release:Ages and ages have passed,—Lo! it is night at last.Night! but the guns roar out.Night! but the hosts attack.Red and yellow and blackGeysers of doom upspout.Silver and green and redStar-shells hover and spread.Yonder off to the rightFiercely kindles the fight;Roaring near and more near,Thundering now in my ear;Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark!Someone moans in the dark.I hear, but I cannot see,I hear as the rest retire,Someone is caught like me,Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . .Again the shuddering dawn,Weird and wicked and wan;Again, and I've not yet gone.The man whom I heard is dead.Now I can understand:A bullet hole in his head,A pistol gripped in his hand.Well, he knew what to do,—Yes, and now I know too. . . .Hark the resentful guns!Oh, how thankful am ITo think my beloved onesWill never know how I die!I've suffered more than my share;I'm shattered beyond repair;I've fought like a man the fight,And now I demand the right(God! how his fingers cling!)To do without shame this thing.Good! there's a bullet still;Now I'm ready to fire;Blame me, God, if You will,Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand;'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill,To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and.For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best;We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes;Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West,So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums.And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound,And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer,If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them roundLike a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere.But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know.'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore;I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago;But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war.It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth(Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit);I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth;But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit.I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn.Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three.Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty?JIM!And as sure as I'm born'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me.Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while,Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?"And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile:"She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay."So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck,And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim,When I makes me way to the boneyard,and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck,For wot do I see?BILL'S GRAVE-MOUND STREWN WITH THE FLOWERS OF JIM.Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad;And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?"Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be gladWhen 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and seesthe blossoms of Jim and me?
Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance,Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France;A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land,And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand;Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss;The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez."Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said."Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead.Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten;Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why,Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry;Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood.A moment only. . . .READY! FIRE!They weltered in their blood.But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes;A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die."He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . .A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame.With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came.A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye;He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie."Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried;"Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there,And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare;"Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him,And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet,The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by,Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry:"Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ."It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside;It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrimAnd walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away.The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay.His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite:"Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might.Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare;Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there,And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understandThe dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand.And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name,Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame."They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand."Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die."The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye.And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head:"Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said."Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I;And I will murmur:VIVE LA FRANCE!and bless you ere I die."Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway;Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez.He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear;And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now!The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this:This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground;The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game."Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give;A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race;The glory of a million men who for fair France have died,The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied.Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . ."Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat."Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said.Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . .THE PRUSSIAN MAJOR DEAD!
I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty—ain't I glad to 'ave the chance!I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France;I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay?I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay;A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way,For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front!I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt;But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt,To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'.I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red;I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead;But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said,A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'.I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un;I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun;But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done,And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'.Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine;And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine;But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine:Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'.
When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty,And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home,Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris cityAs a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam;And that was I; oh, it's seven years now(Some water's run down the Seine since then),And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now,And I've almost taken the measure of men.Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only,Artist and poet, and almost a boy.And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely,And him I adored with a wonderful joy.If he'd come to me with his pockets empty,How we'd have laughed in a garret gay!But he was rich, and in radiant plentyWe lived in a villa at Viroflay.Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me;Then came the call, and he went away;All that he had in the world he left me,With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay.Then came the news and the tragic story:My hero, my splendid lover was dead,Sword in hand on the field of glory,And he died with my name on his lips, they said.So here am I in my widow's mourning,The weeds I've really no right to wear;And women fix me with eyes of scorning,Call me "cocotte", but I do not care.And men look at me with eyes that borrowThe brightness of love, but I turn away;Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow,In my little villa at Viroflay.And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity',And they say that pity from love's not far;Let me tell you all: last week in the cityI took the metro at Saint Lazare;And the carriage was crowded to overflowing,And when there entered at ChateaudunTwo wounded 'poilus' with medals showing,I eagerly gave my seat to one.You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches,But sadder a sight you will rarely find;One had a leg off and walked on crutches,The other, a bit of a boy, was blind.And they both sat down, and the lad was tryingTo grope his way as a blind man tries;And half of the women around were crying,And some of the men had tears in their eyes.How he stirred me, this blind boy, clingingJust like a child to his crippled chum.But I did not cry. Oh no; a singingCame to my heart for a year so dumb,Then I knew that at three-and-twentyThere is wonderful work to be done,Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty,Peace and light and love to be won.Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be givenTo one who will live in the dark alway!To love and to serve—'twould make life HeavenHere in my villa at Viroflay.So I left my 'poilus': and now you wonderWhy to-day I am so elate. . . .Look! In the glory of sunshine yonderThey're bringing my blind boy in at the gate.
When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nitAnd told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore;But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it,So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war.For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours trulyGits into a mix in the grit and the grime,'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's dulyPart of me outfit every time.Left, right, Hans and Fritz!Goose step, keep up yer mits!Oh my, Ain't it a shyme!Part of me outfit every time.At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy;I've used it to open a bully beef can;For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy;For any old thing but for stickin' a man.'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press youInto a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime,"And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you!Part of me outfit every time.Lor, yus;DON'Tthey look glad?Right O! 'Owl Kamerad!Oh my, always the syme!Part of me outfit every time.I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit,Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France;I'm fairly down-'earted—'owCANyer explain it?I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance.As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders,Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb;And I uses me bay'nit—to slit their suspenders—Part of me outfit every time.Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag!'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag!Oh my, ain't it a gyme!Part of me outfit every time.
It's easy to fight when everything's right,And you're mad with the thrill and the glory;It's easy to cheer when victory's near,And wallow in fields that are gory.It's a different song when everything's wrong,When you're feeling infernally mortal;When it's ten against one, and hope there is none,Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:Carry on! Carry on!There isn't much punch in your blow.You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind;You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind.Carry on! Carry on!You haven't the ghost of a show.It's looking like death, but while you've a breath,Carry on, my son! Carry on!And so in the strife of the battle of lifeIt's easy to fight when you're winning;It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave,When the dawn of success is beginning.But the man who can meet despair and defeatWith a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing;The man who can fight to Heaven's own heightIs the man who can fight when he's losing.Carry on! Carry on!Things never were looming so black.But show that you haven't a cowardly streak,And though you're unlucky you never are weak.Carry on! Carry on!Brace up for another attack.It's looking like hell, but—you never can tell:Carry on, old man! Carry on!There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt,And some who in brutishness wallow;There are others, I know, who in piety goBecause of a Heaven to follow.But to labour with zest, and to give of your best,For the sweetness and joy of the giving;To help folks along with a hand and a song;Why, there's the real sunshine of living.Carry on! Carry on!Fight the good fight and true;Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;There's big work to do, and that's why you are here.Carry on! Carry on!Let the world be the better for you;And at last when you die, let this be your cry:CARRY ON, MY SOUL! CARRY ON!
All day long when the shells sail overI stand at the sandbags and take my chance;But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover,And over the parapet gleams Romance.Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writingDreary old records of money and mart,Me with my head chuckful of fightingAnd the blood of vikings to thrill my heart.But little I thought that my time was coming,Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon;And here I am with the bullets hummingAs I crawl and I curse the light of the moon.Out alone, for adventure thirsting,Out in mysterious No Man's Land;Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting,Flares on the horrors on every hand.There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle;And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red;There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle,And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead.But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness,That spill in a pool of pearly flame,Pretty as gems in their silver brightness,And etching a man for a bullet's aim.Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger,Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark,In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger,When the moon is decently hiding. Hark!What was that? Was it just the shiverOf an eerie wind or a clammy hand?The rustle of grass, or the passing quiverOf one of the ghosts of No Man's Land?It's only at night when the ghosts awaken,And gibber and whisper horrible things;For to every foot of this God-forsakenZone of jeopard some horror clings.Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly,That flattish mound in the noisome grass;You three big rats running free of its belly,Out of my way and let me pass!But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder;The trench lights gleam and the rockets play.That flood of magnificent orange yonderIs a battery blazing miles away.With a rush and a singing a great shell passes;The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl,And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses,And look and listen and love it all.God! What a life! But I must make haste now,Before the shadow of night be spent.It's little the time there is to waste now,If I'd do the job for which I was sent.My bombs are right and my clippers ready,And I wriggle out to the chosen place,When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady!Who am I staring slap in the face?There in the dark I can hear him breathing,A foot away, and as still as death;And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething,And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath.Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely,For it's death, swift death to utter a cry."English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely."Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I.So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestleThere in the gutter of No Man's Land;And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle,And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand.And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter:"Now," I say, "I can kill you fine;But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter!Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein."NINE!Well, I cannot kill such a father,So I tie his hands and I leave him there.Do I finish my little job? Well, rather;And I get home safe with some light to spare.Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty,Doing the same old song and dance;But oh! with the night—joy, glory, beauty:Over the parapet—Life, Romance!
You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line,Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine;Out there where the bombs are bustin',and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam—Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam.Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus;He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss.For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word;But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird!He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present,And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant,I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressedBy some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest.For I—and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys!'Ave been—let me whisper it 'oarsely—a gambler 'alf of me days;A gambler, you 'ear—a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep,And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren!—I'd rather gamble than sleep.I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine;From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain.Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf,And when I'd no one to play with—why, I'd go and I'd play by meself.And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck,And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition,"And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!"And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan,Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man.But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front!The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt!Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm,When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam.Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame,'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same.And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked,He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract.Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come!Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um.And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of leadComes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead?No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest,Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest.On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it cavedA 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys—but the life o' me pal was saved.And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath,On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death;On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest,And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags,and it wolloped me bang on the breast.Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ereGazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer?With a throat as dry as a—oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do.Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew.Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart;It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start;And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife,Me wretched past like a pitchur—the sins of a gambler's life.For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom;I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb;I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim;I'd only—a deck of cards, boys, but . . .IT SEEMED TO DO JUST THE SAME.
We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie;For what's the use of risking one's skin for aTYKEthat's going to die?What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire,When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead,and all messed up on the wire?However, I say, we brought him in.DIABLE!The mud was bad;The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had!And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan;And how we were wet with blood and with sweat!but we carried him in like our own.Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance,And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him,and remarks, "He hasn't a chance."And we squat and smoke at our game of bridgeon the glistening, straw-packed floor,And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore.For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim,And the mean light falls on the cold clay wallsand our faces bristly and grim;And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play,And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away.As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath,You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death.Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit;The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit,So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there,And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare.Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be,The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me.It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that.It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat,Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue,With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through;Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down,And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown.And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring,And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string,A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see:Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three;Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls,With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls."Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two,"And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue.Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God,Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod;Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind,It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind.For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain,And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again.So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play,Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away.War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance;But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance.One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm notThe man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot.No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err;For a moment I thought of other things . . .MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE.