Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.

Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite 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".



The Whistle of Sandy McGraw



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 mine The 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 stert O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, And he 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 rank We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. 'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, 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 dawn There 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 fray Wee Sandy wis playin' 'The Watch on the Rhine'.

. . . . .

The last scene o' a'—'twas the day that we took That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, When upward we shot at the word o' 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 grand Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: "I'll—no—play—nae—mair——" feebly doon frae his hand Slipped 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.



The Stretcher-Bearer



My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot—I'm sick with pain For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; Around me is the 'ellish night, And as the war's red rim I trace, I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, Our God don't turn away 'Is Face.

I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see As man destroys his brother man; I waves no flag: I only know, As 'ere beside the dead I wait, A million 'earts is weighed with woe, A million 'omes is desolate.

In drippin' darkness, far and near, All night I've sought them woeful ones. Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear The crimson chorus of the guns. Look! like a ball of blood the sun 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?



Wounded



Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, I did my decent job and earned my pay; Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. 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 grips With someone you can rush and crush and kill. Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, And there's the trench—you'll get there 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 plunge With all your comrades roaring at your heels. HAVE AT 'EM, LADS! You stab, you jab, you lunge; A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. 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 when Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? It isn't much that's left of me, but then Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. I tell you I won't envy any king. I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing! It gives us common, working chaps our chance, A taste of glory, chivalry, romance.

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 otherwise Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; It teaches him in pain and sacrifice Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, A happy wreck I wait amid the din; For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in? Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . Lead on! I'll live to fight another day.



Faith



Since all that is was ever bound to be; Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; And both the riddle and the answer find, And both the carnage and the calm decree; Since plain within the Book of Destiny Is written all the journey of mankind Inexorably to the end; since blind And mortal puppets playing parts are we:

Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will; Fight on, believing all is well with life; Seeing within the worst of War's red rage The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age.



The Coward



'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' 'Uns Afore '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 nose Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. And now all the papers 'is praises ring, And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, Where they're 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 volunteer To crawl in the dark and see?' Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, And up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'Right O!' But I chips in straight, and I says 'Oh no! 'E's a missis and kids—take me.'

"And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, And the oozy corpses was all about, And I felt so scared I wanted to shout, And me skin fair prickled wiv fear; And I sez: 'You coward! You 'ad no right To take on the job of a man this night,' 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 until I was seein' a dim light shine. Then thinks I: 'I'll just go a little bit, And see wot the doose I can make of it,' And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: 'Christmas!' sez I, 'a MINE.'

"Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain: I wanted to make for 'ome again, But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, So I crawled to the trench instead; Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, And 'e stood by a rapid-firer 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 round And 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 night Which 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's Boy



Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: "Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now— it's the fortunate woman you are; You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he? Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the 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 was wid 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 tell she'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?



My Foe

A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:—

GURR! You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face! Here amid the wreck and rout Let us grip and have it out! Here where ruins rock and reel Let us settle, steel to steel! Look! Our houses, how they spit Sparks from brands your friends have lit. See! Our gutters running red, Bright with blood your friends have shed. Hark! Amid your drunken brawl How our maidens shriek and call. Why have YOU come here alone, To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? Come to ravish, come to loot, Come to play the ghoulish brute. Ah, indeed! We well are met, Bayonet to bayonet. God! I never killed a man: Now I'll do the best I can. Rip you to the evil heart, Laugh to see the life-blood start. Bah! You swine! I hate you so. Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . .

There! I've done it. See! He lies Death a-staring from his eyes; Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, How it's horrible, is Death! Plucking at his bloody lips With his trembling finger-tips; Choking in a dreadful way As if he would something say In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . Oh, how horrible Death is!

How I wish that he would die! So unnerved, unmanned am I. See! His twitching face is white! See! His bubbling blood is bright. Why do I not shout with glee? What strange spell is over me? There he lies; the fight was fair; Let me toss my cap in air. Why am I so silent? Why Do I pray for him to die? Where is all my vengeful joy? Ugh! MY FOE IS BUT A BOY.

I'd a brother of his age Perished in the war's red rage; Perished in the Ypres hell: Oh, I loved my brother well. And though I be hard and grim, How it makes me think of him! He had just such flaxen hair As the lad that's lying there. Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . God! How horrible war is!

I have reason to be gay: There is one less foe to slay. I have reason to be glad: Yet—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 wide To that bit of ruined wall Where the flames have ceased to crawl, Where amid the crumbling bricks Hangs A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX.

Now, oh now I understand. Quick I press it in his hand, Close his feeble finger-tips, Hold it to his faltering lips. As I watch his welling blood I would stem it if I could. God of Pity, let him live! God of Love, forgive, forgive.

. . . . .

His face looked strangely, as he died, Like that of One they crucified. And in the pocket of his coat I found a letter; thus he wrote: 'The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, I'm wondering can God be here? To-night amid the drunken brawl I saw a Cross hung on a wall; I'll seek it now, and there alone Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . .'

Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone. No other saw but God alone; Yet how can I forget the sight Of that face so woeful white! Dead I kissed him as he lay, Knelt by him and tried to pray; Left him lying there at rest, Crucifix upon his breast.

Not for him the pity be. Ye who pity, pity me, Crawling now the ways I trod, Blood-guilty in sight of God.



My Job



I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . DYIN'.

I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now. I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, I've been in many 'ot old 'do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow, But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well.—Your werry lovin' Micky."

I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care, If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . . It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . A DECENT JOB IN DYIN'.



The Song of the Pacifist



What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead? Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!

If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;

If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . . Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.

Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.

Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.

Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.

When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . THAT WILL BE VICTORY.



The Twins



There were two brothers, John and James, And when the town went up in flames, To save the house of James dashed John, Then turned, and lo! his own was gone.

And when the great World War began, To volunteer John promptly ran; And while he learned live bombs to lob, James stayed at home and—sneaked his job.

John came home with a missing limb; That didn't seem to worry him; But oh, it set his brain awhirl To find that James had—sneaked his girl!

Time passed. John tried his grief to drown; To-day James owns one-half the town; His army contracts riches yield; And John? Well, SEARCH THE POTTER'S FIELD.



The Song of the Soldier-born



Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.

Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.

For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying: The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying.

So let me go and leave your safety behind me; Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; Go till the word is War—and then you will find me.

Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me.

For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry.

You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking.

Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters.

There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for.

Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended; That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended.

That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory.

So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.



Afternoon Tea



As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea; Cows weren't allowed in the trenches—got out of the habit, y'see.) As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten: "Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." And he sprang to the head of the men. Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . . Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "Damn!" And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain, And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain. 'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea); I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free. Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws, Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was. So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own, And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone; With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap; And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap? Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash; We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash. My fellows—Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell, Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags,—nothing much left to tell: A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live; Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve. The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show, And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe. So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again, Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain. Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank, And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank." He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes, As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums. So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats; Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats. 'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range, With someone you SAW to go for—it made an agreeable change. And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt, And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".

Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran, On to the second line trenches,—that's where the fun began. For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about, And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out. Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?" And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair; And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot! (I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?) My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten; So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men, And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right; I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight. But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things: The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things, So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must. We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust; And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now; And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row; And my chaps—well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore; In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.) Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they COULDN'T be calmed, So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned. Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all; The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal. Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head, And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red. I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too, Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do". As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea, I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me; I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right, And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight. And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then: They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men. And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive— So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five; And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game, And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same. A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell, So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell. And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun; He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done. So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt, And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt". And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away; Let's talk of the things that MATTER—your car or the newest play. . . .



The Mourners



I look into the aching womb of night; I look across the mist that masks the dead; The moon is tired and gives but little light, The stars have gone to bed.

The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain; A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree; I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, The dead I do not see.

The slain I WOULD not see . . . and so I lift My eyes from out the shambles where they lie; When lo! a million woman-faces drift Like pale leaves through the sky.

The cheeks of some are channelled deep with tears; But some are tearless, with wild eyes that stare Into the shadow of the coming years Of fathomless despair.

And some are young, and some are very old; And some are rich, some poor beyond belief; Yet all are strangely like, set in the mould Of everlasting grief.

They fill the vast of Heaven, face on face; And then I see one weeping with the rest, Whose eyes beseech me for a moment's space. . . . Oh eyes I love the best!

Nay, I but dream. The sky is all forlorn, And there's the plain of battle writhing red: God pity them, the women-folk who mourn! How happy are the dead!



L'Envoi



My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready, My word-battalions marching verse by verse; Here stanza-companies are none too steady; There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse. And as in marshalled order I review them, My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray, My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them Immortal visions of an epic day.

It seems I'm in a giant bowling-alley; The hidden heavies round me crash and thud; A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley; The rising sun is like a ball of blood. Along the road the "fantassins" are pouring, And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . . Then back again I see the red tide pouring, Along the reeking road from Hebuterne.

And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven, The Hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight; When suddenly the rosy air is riven— A "coal-box" blots the "boyou" on my right. Or else to evil Carnoy I am stealing, Past sentinels who hail with bated breath; Where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing May hint our mission in that zone of death.

I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle; Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shadows, And Thiepval's chateau empty as a shell. Down Albert's riven streets the moon is leering; The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray; And all the road from Hamel I am hearing The silver rage of bugles over Bray.

Once more within the sky's deep sapphire hollow I sight a swimming Taube, a fairy thing; I watch the angry shell flame flash and follow In feather puffs that flick a tilted wing; And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror's flashing; The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; The batteries are rancorously crashing, And life is just as full as it can hold.

Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving! Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! Let us be glad we lived you, still believing The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross. Let us be sure amid these seething passions, The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor: The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War. . . . Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well.



About the Author



Robert William Service was born 16 January 1874 in Preston, England, but also lived in Scotland before emigrating to Canada in 1894. Service went to the Yukon Territory in 1904 as a bank clerk, and became famous for his poems about this region, which are mostly in his first two books of poetry. He wrote quite a bit of prose as well, and worked as a reporter for some time, but those writings are not nearly as well known as his poems. He travelled around the world quite a bit, and died 11 September 1958 in France.

Service's Books of Poetry:

The Spell of the Yukon (1907) a.k.a. Songs of a Sourdough Ballads of a Cheechako (1909) Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (1912) Rhymes of a Red Cross Man (1916) Ballads of a Bohemian (1921) Bar-Room Ballads (1940) The Complete Poems (1947?) [This is simply a compilation of the six books.]

[Note: A Sourdough is an old-timer, while a Cheechako is a newbie.]

A few other books by Robert W. Service:

The Trail of '98—A Northland Romance (1910)

Ploughman of the Moon (1945) A two-volume

Harper of Heaven (1948) autobiography.

THE END