A Treasury of War Poetry Part 17

Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of sh.e.l.l and sh.e.l.l His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile which he calls a "Black Maria."

He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all.

'T is then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary.

His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."

He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith--be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.

_Owen Seaman_

_October, 1914_

IN THE TRENCHES

As I lay in the trenches Under the Hunter's Moon, My mind ran to the lenches Cut in a Wilts.h.i.+re down.

I saw their long black shadows, The beeches in the lane, The gray church in the meadows And my white cottage--plain.

Thinks I, the down lies dreaming Under that hot moon's eye, Which sees the sh.e.l.ls fly screaming And men and horses die.

And what makes she, I wonder, Of the horror and the blood, And what's her luck, to sunder The evil from the good?

'T was more than I could compa.s.s, For how was I to think With such infernal rumpus In such a blasted stink?

But here's a thought to tally With t'other. That moon sees A shrouded German valley With woods and ghostly trees.

And maybe there's a river As we have got at home With poplar-trees aquiver And clots of whirling foam.

And over there some fellow, A German and a foe, Whose gills are turning yellow As sure as mine are so,

Watches that riding glory Apparel'd in her gold, And craves to hear the story Her frozen lips enfold.

And if he sees as clearly As I do where her shrine Must fall, he longs as dearly.

With heart as full as mine.

_Maurice Hewlett_

THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH

Men of the Twenty-first Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food, After a day and a night-- G.o.d, shall we ever forget!

Beaten and broke in the fight, But sticking it--sticking it yet.

Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done, Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun!

Northumberland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it--sticking it yet.

Never a message of hope!

Never a word of cheer!

Fronting Hill 70's sh.e.l.l-swept slope, With the dull dead plain in our rear.

Always the whine of the sh.e.l.l, Always the roar of its burst, Always the tortures of h.e.l.l, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck and the guns and the _Boche_, When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"

And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"

And the Guards came through.

Our throats they were parched and hot, But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!

Irish and Welsh and Scot, Coldstream and Grenadiers.

Two brigades, if you please, Dressing as straight as a hem, We--we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them!

Lord, I could speak for a week, But how could you understand!

How should _your_ cheeks be wet, Such feelin's don't come to _you_.

But when can me or my mates forget, When the Guards came through?

"Five yards left extend!"

It pa.s.sed from rank to rank.

Line after line with never a bend, And a touch of the London sw.a.n.k.

A trifle of sw.a.n.k and dash, Cool as a home parade, Twinkle and glitter and flash, Flinching never a shade, With the shrapnel right in their face Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Keeping their swing at an easy pace, Arms at the trail, eyes front!

Man, it was great to see!

Man, it was fine to do!

It's a cot and a hospital ward for me, But I'll tell 'em in Blighty, wherever I be, How the Guards came through.

_Arthur Conan Doyle_

THE Pa.s.sENGERS OF A r.e.t.a.r.dED SUBMERSIBLE

NOVEMBER, 1916

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE: What was it kept you so long, brave German submersible?

We have been very anxious lest matters had not gone well With you and the precious cargo of your country's drugs and dyes.

But here you are at last, and the sight is good for our eyes, Glad to welcome you up and out of the caves of the sea, And ready for sale or barter, whatever your will may be.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE SUBMERSIBLE: Oh, do not be impatient, good friends of this neutral land, That we have been so tardy in reaching your eager strand.

We were stopped by a curious chance just off the Irish coast, Where the mightiest wreck ever was lay crowded with a host Of the dead that went down with her; and some prayed us to bring them here That they might be at home with their brothers and sisters dear.

We Germans have tender hearts, and it grieved us sore to say We were not a pa.s.senger s.h.i.+p, and to most we must answer nay, But if from among their hundreds they could somehow a half-score choose We thought we could manage to bring them, and we would not refuse.

They chose, and the women and children that are greeting you here are those Ghosts of the women and children that the rest of the hundred chose.

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE: What guff are you giving us, Captain? We are able to tell, we hope, A dozen ghosts, when we see them, apart from a periscope.

Come, come, get down to business! For time is money, you know, And you must make up in both to us for having been so slow.

Better tell this story of yours to the submarines, for we Know there was no such wreck, and none of your spookery.