Rhymes of a Red Cross Man Part 12

Son

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 pay Could 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 earth I 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 G.o.d, if it be Thy Will!"

The Black Dudeen

_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 bloke Has 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 h.o.r.n.y 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 dead Wi' 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 bra.s.s would freeze.

And if we ventured our noses out A "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 s.h.a.g?-- I'd sell me peris.h.i.+n' soul for a f.a.g."

And there he s.h.i.+vered and cussed his luck, So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.

And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it Like a babby takes to his mammy's t.i.t; 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 gun Tickle 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 ideer Of 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 trenches Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, But it smashes me old dudeen.

G.o.d blast that red-headed sniper!

I'll give him somethin' to snipe; Before the war's through Just see how I do That blighter that smashed me pipe._

The Little Piou-piou

* 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 cheer To 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 pet.i.t verre de vin, Pour nous mettre en route; Encore un pet.i.t verre de vin Pour 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 glad To 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 way They expect of the little piou-piou.

En avant!

The way of the gallant piou-piou, The das.h.i.+ng and smas.h.i.+ng piou-piou; The way grim and gory that leads us to glory Is the way of the little piou-piou.

_Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive._

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.