Rhymes of a Red Cross Man Part 6

"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."

"G.o.d 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 bright Till my boy comes home; and here I sit Into 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: G.o.d 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 G.o.d! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)_ For you pa.s.sed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, And you proved in the cruel test Of the screaming sh.e.l.l and the battle h.e.l.l That 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 n.o.ble and true; For all our beauty and hope and joy We will owe to our lads like you."

A Song of the Sandbags

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 sandbags It'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 sandbags Wiv me rifle under me ear, Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go Than I used to 'ave in a year.

I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me Wot'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.

s.h.i.+verin' 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-sh.e.l.l Cracks in a sputter of light, You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags Most 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 b.l.o.o.d.y war is made, Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be d.a.m.ned!

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 d.a.m.n thing; Firin' to keep meself awake, 'Earin' the bullets sing.

_(HISS! Tw.a.n.g! TSING! PANG!

SAUCY THE BULLETS SING.)_ Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags Of a day when war will cease, When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me Will clink our mugs in fraternity, And the Brotherhood of Labour will be The Brotherhood of Peace.

On the Wire

O G.o.d, take the sun from the sky!

It's burning me, scorching me up.

G.o.d, can't You hear my cry?

'Water! A poor, little cup!'

It's laughing, the cursed sun!

See how it swells and swells Fierce as a hundred h.e.l.ls!

G.o.d, will it never have done?

It's searing the flesh on my bones; It's beating with hammers red My eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 lie Here on the wire ... the wire... .

Of the thousands that wheeze and hum Heedlessly 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 h.e.l.lish glare Why must I suffer so?

Is it G.o.d doesn't care?

Is it G.o.d 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 breath Under a hot abyss, Under a stooping sky Of seething, sulphurous fire, Scorching me up as I lie Here on the wire ... the wire... .

Hasten, O G.o.d, Thy night!

Hide from my eyes the sight Of the body I stare and see Shattered 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 be The thing of horror I see Under 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 pa.s.sed,-- Lo! it is night at last.

Night! but the guns roar out.

Night! but the hosts attack.

Red and yellow and black Geysers of doom upspout.

Silver and green and red Star-sh.e.l.ls hover and spread.

Yonder off to the right Fiercely 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 I To think my beloved ones Will never know how I die!