For oh, when the war will be overWe'll go and we'll look for our dead;We'll go when the bee's on the clover,And the plume of the poppy is red:We'll go when the year's at its gayest,When meadows are laughing with flow'rs;And there where the crosses are greyest,We'll seek for the cross that is ours.For they cry to us: 'Friends, we are lonely,A-weary the night and the day;But come in the blossom-time only,Come when our graves will be gay:When daffodils all are a-blowing,And larks are a-thrilling the skies,Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.'But never, oh, never come sighing,For ours was the Splendid Release;And oh, but 'twas joy in the dyingTo know we were winning you Peace!So come when the valleys are sheening,And fledged with the promise of grain;And here where our graves will be greening,Just smile and be happy again.'And so, when the war will be over,We'll seek for the Wonderful One;And maiden will look for her lover,And mother will look for her son;And there will be end to our grieving,And gladness will gleam over loss,As—glory beyond all believing!We point . . . to a name on a cross.
We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me;Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we;Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was,Fightin' fierce as fire becauseIt was 'im or me as must be downed;'E was twice as big as me;I was 'arf the weight of 'e;We was like a terryer and a 'ound.'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke.Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke.Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf!Why, it fairly made me laugh,'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound.Couldn't fight for monkey nuts.Soon I gets 'im in the guts,There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground.In I goes to finish up the job.Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob;Speakin' English good as me:"'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e;"Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?""Why, I'd like to, sir," says I;"But—yer knows the reason why:If we pokes our noses out we're dead."Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and(As a gent like you must understand),If I 'olds you longer 'ere,Wiv yer pals so werry near,It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin;If I lets yer go away,Why, you'll fight another day:See the sitooation I am in."Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do,Bein' kind and seein' as it's you,Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feelOf a 'alf a yard o' steel,I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead;Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . .'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck,Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead."'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile!'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while!Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme,Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme:Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods.Whereas, pardon me, I'm sureYou, my friend, are still obscure. . . .""In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds."Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . .Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do,And to think this is the end!""'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend,Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs.Picters, statoos, is that whyYou should be let off to die?That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers."Once again 'e seems ter think awhile.Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile:"Why, no, sir, it's not the best;There's a locket next me breast,Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue.That's the best I've done," says 'e."That's me darter, aged three. . . .""Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too."Straight I chucks my rifle to one side;Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's prideMe own little Mary Jane.Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine,And we talks as friendly as can be;Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way,'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day,Wonders—'OW WOULD 'E 'AVE TREATED ME?
POPPIES,you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat;Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood.It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat;It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood;It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it criesWith scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade.See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies,And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid!CORNFLOWERS,you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain;Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes?Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain,All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies.Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat.See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white!Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . .Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night!LILIES(the light is waning), only lilies you say,Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves.No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day:It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves.Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown.Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . .Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . .God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win—MY CROSS.
You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam;You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear;You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam;The very breath of it is ripe with cheer.You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot;You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot;It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot:God bless the man that first discovered Tea!Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day,I think I've drunk enough to float a barge;All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay,To rum they serves you out before a charge.In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham;I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam;But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam:God bless the man that first invented Tea!I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodelSwigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong;I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ellCould 'ave their daily ration of Suchong.Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too;And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do,To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew(For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea).To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew,As we drink the giddy victory in Tea.
The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut;Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut;Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen;They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men.We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew;But when we go back to our Sissy jobs,—oh, what are we going to do?For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square;And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air;And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride,with a new-found joy in our eyes,Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies.And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call,Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall,Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night?Then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight!Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away,And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey?As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear insteadThe night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead?Don't you guess that the things we're seeing nowwill haunt us through all the years;Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears;Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a greyTo remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day?Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now,we're pledged to the Real Romance;We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France;We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give;We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first—we'll live; by the gods, we'll live!We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky;We'll march with men and we'll fight with men,and we'll see men laugh and die;We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain:But the hardest bit of it all will be—when we come back home again.For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop,and some of us teach in a school;Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool;The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain,But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again.
And so when he reached my bedThe General made a stand:"My brave young fellow," he said,"I would shake your hand."So I lifted my arm, the right,With never a hand at all;Only a stump, a sightFit to appal."Well, well. Now that's too bad!That's sorrowful luck," he said;"But there! You give me, my lad,The left instead."So from under the blanket's rimI raised and showed him the other,A snag as ugly and grimAs its ugly brother.He looked at each jagged wrist;He looked, but he did not speak;And then he bent down and kissedMe on either cheek.You wonder now I don't mindI hadn't a hand to offer. . . .They tell me (you know I'm blind)'TWAS GRAND-PEÈRE JOFFRE.
He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky!And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I.For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live;And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give.Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim!With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him.For look! How the leaves are falling now,and the winter won't be long. . . .Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song!How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam,And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend,on the beautiful river of Dream.Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly payCould I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey.For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me;And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee;A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!"Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earthI know that my heart would hear.. . . . .Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain:how worthier could he die?Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I.For Peace must be bought with blood and tears,and the boys of our hearts must pay;And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day.And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head,And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead.And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still,So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!"
Humping it here in the dug-out,Sucking me black dudeen,I'd like to say in a general way,There's nothing like Nickyteen;There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;So be sure that a blokeHas plenty to smoke,If you wants him to fight your wars.When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug,I begin to think of my baccy plug.I whittle a fill in my horny palm,And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.I trim the edges, I tamp it down,I nurse a light with an anxious frown;I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,And all my face is a blissful grin;And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow,But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.There was Micky and me on a night patrol,Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;And sure I thought I was worse than deadWi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head.Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot,Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.And mind you, water up to your knees.And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.And if we ventured our noses outA "typewriter" clattered its pills about.The field of glory! Well, I don't think!I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through;Death and me 'as a wrongday voo.But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag?—I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag."And there he shivered and cussed his luck,So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to itLike a babby takes to his mammy's tit;Like an infant takes to his mother's breast,Poor little Micky! he went to rest.But the dawn was near, though the night was black,So I left him there and I started back.And I laughed as the silly old bullets came,For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name.Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near,And one little blighter just chipped me ear.But there! I got to the trench all right,When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright,And a word that doesn't look well in type:I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE.So I had to do it all over again,Crawling out on that filthy plain.Through shells and bombs and bullets and all—Only this time—I do not crawl.I run like a man wot's missing a train,Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.I hear the spit of a quick-fire gunTickle my heels, but I run, I run.Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,(Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!)I run like a man that's no ideerOf hunting around for a sooveneer.I run bang into a German chap,And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.And just to show him that I'm his boss,I gives him a kick on the parados.And I marches him back with me all serene,With,TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN.Sitting here in the trenchesMe heart's a-splittin' with spleen,For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head,But it smashes me old dudeen.God blast that red-headed sniper!I'll give him somethin' to snipe;Before the war's throughJust see how I doThat blighter that smashed me pipe.
* The French "Tommy".
Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau,And some of us slinked in the slum;But now we are here with a song and a cheerTo serve at the sign of the drum.They put us in trousers of scarlet,In big sloppy ulsters of blue;In boots that are flat, a box of a hat,And they call us the little piou-piou,Piou-piou,The laughing and quaffing piou-piou,The swinging and singing piou-piou;And so with a rattle we march to the battle,The weary but cheery piou-piou.Encore un petit verre de vin,Pour nous mettre en route;Encore un petit verre de vinPour nous mettre en train.They drive us head-on for the slaughter;We haven't got much of a chance;The issue looks bad, but we're awfully gladTo battle and die for La France.For some must be killed, that is certain;There's only one's duty to do;So we leap to the fray in the glorious wayThey expect of the little piou-piou.En avant!The way of the gallant piou-piou,The dashing and smashing piou-piou;The way grim and gory that leads us to gloryIs the way of the little piou-piou.Allons, enfants de la Patrie,Le jour de gloire est arrivé.To-day you would scarce recognise us,Such veterans war-wise are we;So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred,So "crummy", yet gay as can be.We've finished with trousers of scarlet,They're giving us breeches of blue,With a helmet instead of a cap on our head,Yet still we're the little piou-piou.Nous les aurons!The jesting, unresting piou-piou;The cheering, unfearing piou-piou;The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil;The dying, defying piou-piou.À la bayonette! Jusqu'à la mort!Sonnez la charge, clairons!
The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist;And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came.'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink,For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think.So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dreamOf a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream;But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke:"Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead;But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead,Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound,And it's odd—we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground.And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew,How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through;So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin,And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in.And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run,A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one."Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm,For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am.I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" becauseI 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was.We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer;Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near;And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew,And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two."I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see,And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me.And I'd lost me 'at and rifle—but I told you that before,So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more.But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet,And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set,And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead,And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead;When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee,And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three."So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that,And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at;And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said:"If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead."And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs—that was the 'ardest blow,To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe.And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad,And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad.And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again,Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot,And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got,I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-outSix Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out;And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at;And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat;And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad,Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad.For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ereThis lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain,So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain;And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me,And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . .And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear;And now they're all excited like, but—I am drawin' near;And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . .Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game.And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin',And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole,And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole.And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell,And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell.And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive;We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five.And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay,For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".
You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine,Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a',But here in the trenches jist gie me for mineThe wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?"And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad;Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun',And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad.Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert,And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame;And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stertO' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame.For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirtYou listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw,And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt,For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw.. . . . .At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rankWe rose from the trenches and swept like the gale,Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flankAnd the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail:Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke;Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout,When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smokeThe wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out.'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the frayWe bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw,And oh we fair revelled in glory that day,Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw.. . . . .At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht,On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot;And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht;And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot;When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh,And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw:"Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I."I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw."'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack,It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawnThere isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . .""Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone.Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel,And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around,And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell,And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound.And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!"When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma';And there in a crater, collected and cool,Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw.Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be,And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche;Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me,And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh.The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play.It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!"And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the frayWee Sandy wis playin' 'The Watch on the Rhine'.. . . . .The last scene o' a'—'twas the day that we tookThat bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell.It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook,And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell.And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand,And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs,When upward we shot at the word o' command,And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs.And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer,And a' wis destruction, confusion and din,And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near,And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in.So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there,And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!"And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air,And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad.And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . .When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw,And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men,For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw.Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please:"Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he;"But noo I can play in the street for bawbees,Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee."And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain,He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play;And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain:'The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'.Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grandHoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid:"I'll—no—play—nae—mair——" feebly doon frae his handSlipped the wee penny whistle and—SANDY WIS DEID.. . . . .And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads,Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw;But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads,Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.
My stretcher is one scarlet stain,And as I tries to scrape it clean,I tell you wot—I'm sick with painFor all I've 'eard, for all I've seen;Around me is the 'ellish night,And as the war's red rim I trace,I wonder if in 'Eaven's height,Our God don't turn away 'Is Face.I don't care 'oose the Crime may be;I 'olds no brief for kin or clan;I 'ymns no 'ate: I only seeAs man destroys his brother man;I waves no flag: I only know,As 'ere beside the dead I wait,A million 'earts is weighed with woe,A million 'omes is desolate.In drippin' darkness, far and near,All night I've sought them woeful ones.Dawn shudders up and still I 'earThe crimson chorus of the guns.Look! like a ball of blood the sun'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . ."Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!"O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?
Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,I did my decent job and earned my pay;Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.Ay, in my little groove I was content,Seeing my life run smoothly to the end,With prosy days in stolid labour spent,And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend.In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam,A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs;When presto! like a bubble goes my dream:I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds.I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore:I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.Stranger than any book I've ever read.Here on the reeking battlefield I lie,Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead,Like too, if no one takes me in, to die.Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall;Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit;But calm, and feeling never pain at all,And full of wonder at the turn of it.For of the dead around me three are mine,Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight;So if I die I have no right to whine,I feel I've done my little bit all right.I don't know how—but there the beggars are,As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.And here am I, worse wounded than I thought;For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings;You never heed; the air is metal-hot,And all alive with little flicking wings.BUT ON YOU CHARGE.You see the fellows fall;Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad;You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all;You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad.BUT ON YOU CHARGE.The heavens vomit death;And vicious death is besoming the ground.You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath,And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound.BUT ON YOU CHARGE.Oh, War's a rousing game!Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower;The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame,And on your helmet stones and ashes shower.BUT ON YOU CHARGE.It's odd! You have no fear.Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path;Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear;The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath.BUT ON YOU CHARGE.Barbed wire all trampled down.The ground all gored and rent as by a blast;Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown;A ragged ditch—the Hun first line at last.All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead,SO ON YOU CHARGE.There's nothing else to do.More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead;(Your puttee strap's undone—that worries you).You glare around. You think you're all alone.But no; your chums come surging left and right.The nearest chap flops down without a groan,His face still snarling with the rage of fight.Ha! here's the second trench—just like the first,Only a little more so, more "laid out";More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst;A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt.Now for the third, and there your job is done,SO ON YOU CHARGE.You never stop to think.Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run;You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink.The acrid air is full of cracking whips.You wonder how it is you're going still.You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at gripsWith someone you can rush and crush and kill.Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red;You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now.See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead,And there's the trench—you'll get there anyhow.Your puttee catches on a strand of wire,And down you go; perhaps it saves your life,For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire,Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife.You crawl, you cower; then once again you plungeWith all your comrades roaring at your heels.HAVE AT 'EM, LADS!You stab, you jab, you lunge;A blaze of glory, then the red world reels.A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . .That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . .Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone.I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun,To shield me from the leaden bees that drone(It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none).The only thing I'm wondering is whenSome stretcher-men will stroll along my way?It isn't much that's left of me, but thenWhere life is, hope is, so at least they say.Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad.I tell you I won't envy any king.I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad;I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing!It gives us common, working chaps our chance,A taste of glory, chivalry, romance.Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too.It lets a man discover what he's worth.It takes his measure, shows what he can do,Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth.It fans in him a flame that otherwiseWould flicker out, these drab, discordant days;It teaches him in pain and sacrificeFaith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise.Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain,A happy wreck I wait amid the din;For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . .Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in?Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . .We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say!Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . .Lead on! I'll live to fight another day.
Since all that is was ever bound to be;Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind;And both the riddle and the answer find,And both the carnage and the calm decree;Since plain within the Book of DestinyIs written all the journey of mankindInexorably to the end; since blindAnd mortal puppets playing parts are we:Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill;The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife;Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will;Fight on, believing all is well with life;Seeing within the worst of War's red rageThe gleam, the glory of the Golden Age.
'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day?'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say;Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away,If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr.'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons;'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns,And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'UnsAfore 'e went off to the war.Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes;Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes;'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little noseWiv the 'em of me pinnyfore.And now all the papers 'is praises ring,And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the KingAnd I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing,Where they're patchin' 'im up once more.And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?"And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man;You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began,When you was a bit of a kid."And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz,They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz,And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz,But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did."Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: 'Look 'ere!They're far too quiet out there: it's queer.They're up to somethin'—'oo'll volunteerTo crawl in the dark and see?'Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go,And up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'Right O!'But I chips in straight, and I says 'Oh no!'E's a missis and kids—take me.'"And the next I knew I was sneakin' out,And the oozy corpses was all about,And I felt so scared I wanted to shout,And me skin fair prickled wiv fear;And I sez: 'You coward! You 'ad no rightTo take on the job of a man this night,'Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!)The trench of the 'Uns was near."It was all so dark, it was all so still;Yet somethin' pushed me against me will;'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled untilI was seein' a dim light shine.Then thinks I: 'I'll just go a little bit,And see wot the doose I can make of it,'And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit:'Christmas!' sez I, 'aMINE.'"Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain:I wanted to make for 'ome again,But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain,So I crawled to the trench instead;Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un,And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun,And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one,And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead."Then all the 'Uns that was underground,Comes up with a rush and on with a bound,And I swings that giddy old Maxim roundAnd belts 'em solid and square.You see I was off me chump wiv fear:'If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, 'it's dear.'And the trench was narrow and they was near,So I peppered the brutes for fair."So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright,And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight,And we 'captured a section o' trench' that nightWhich we didn't expect to get;And they found me there with me Maxim gun,And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one,And I fainted away when the thing was done,And I 'aven't got over it yet."So that's the 'istory Bill told me.Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.;It wouldn't do to get out, you see,As 'e hacted against 'is will.But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might,And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight—Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right?Wot's the matter with Bill!
Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she:"Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now—it's the fortunate woman you are;You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home,but me Patsy boy where is he?Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr.Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last,wid his hair all curly and bright,And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away,Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height:Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day."And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door,Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay;And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more,But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away.And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed,Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat;Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she waswid her Patsy slaughtered and dead?Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that.Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face;Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl,and the eyes of her mother-mild;Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case,Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tellshe'd be losin' her only child.And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind,And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three:Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind—Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me?
A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:—
GURR!You 'cochon'! Stand and fight!Show your mettle! Snarl and bite!Spawn of an accursed race,Turn and meet me face to face!Here amid the wreck and routLet us grip and have it out!Here where ruins rock and reelLet us settle, steel to steel!Look! Our houses, how they spitSparks from brands your friends have lit.See! Our gutters running red,Bright with blood your friends have shed.Hark! Amid your drunken brawlHow our maidens shriek and call.Why haveYOUcome here alone,To this hearth's blood-spattered stone?Come to ravish, come to loot,Come to play the ghoulish brute.Ah, indeed! We well are met,Bayonet to bayonet.God! I never killed a man:Now I'll do the best I can.Rip you to the evil heart,Laugh to see the life-blood start.Bah! You swine! I hate you so.Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . .There! I've done it. See! He liesDeath a-staring from his eyes;Glazing eyeballs, panting breath,How it's horrible, is Death!Plucking at his bloody lipsWith his trembling finger-tips;Choking in a dreadful wayAs if he would something sayIn that uncouth tongue of his. . . .Oh, how horrible Death is!How I wish that he would die!So unnerved, unmanned am I.See! His twitching face is white!See! His bubbling blood is bright.Why do I not shout with glee?What strange spell is over me?There he lies; the fight was fair;Let me toss my cap in air.Why am I so silent? WhyDo I pray for him to die?Where is all my vengeful joy?Ugh!MY FOE IS BUT A BOY.I'd a brother of his agePerished in the war's red rage;Perished in the Ypres hell:Oh, I loved my brother well.And though I be hard and grim,How it makes me think of him!He had just such flaxen hairAs the lad that's lying there.Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . .God! How horrible war is!I have reason to be gay:There is one less foe to slay.I have reason to be glad:Yet—my foe is such a lad.So I watch in dull amaze,See his dying eyes a-glaze,See his face grow glorified,See his hands outstretched and wideTo that bit of ruined wallWhere the flames have ceased to crawl,Where amid the crumbling bricksHangsA BLACKENED CRUCIFIX.Now, oh now I understand.Quick I press it in his hand,Close his feeble finger-tips,Hold it to his faltering lips.As I watch his welling bloodI would stem it if I could.God of Pity, let him live!God of Love, forgive, forgive.. . . . .His face looked strangely, as he died,Like that of One they crucified.And in the pocket of his coatI found a letter; thus he wrote:'The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear,I'm wondering can God be here?To-night amid the drunken brawlI saw a Cross hung on a wall;I'll seek it now, and there alonePerhaps I may atone, atone. . . .'Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone.No other saw but God alone;Yet how can I forget the sightOf that face so woeful white!Dead I kissed him as he lay,Knelt by him and tried to pray;Left him lying there at rest,Crucifix upon his breast.Not for him the pity be.Ye who pity, pity me,Crawling now the ways I trod,Blood-guilty in sight of God.