T’was the Night before Christmas

The Sasanach version ..

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement Clarke Moore

 The Yuil E’en

T’wis the Yuil e’en, whan aw throu the hoose
Nae a beastie wis steerie, nae e’en a moose.
The hose war hing bi the lum wi care,
I’ howps ‘at St Nicholas suin wad bi thare.

The weans war nestled aw cosh i’ thair beids,
While veesions of succar-ploums dance i’ thair heids.
An hen in her curtch, an ah in ma cadie,
Haed juist sattkelt doun for a lang winter’s dover.
Whan oot on the green thare arose sic a brattle,
Ah breesit frae the beid tae see whit wis the maiter.

Awa tae the windae ah flew like a glent,
Rive appen the bairges an thraw up the chess.
The muin on the breest o the new-fawen snaw
Gae the lustre o twaloors tae objects ablo.

Whan, whit tae ma wunnert een shoud compear,
But a wee sleigh, an eicht wee reindeer.
Wi a wee auld driver, sae birkie an swipper,
Ah kent in a maument it must be St Nick.

Mair swith than eagles his courseirs thay cam,
An he whistled, an shootit, an cawed thaim by name!
“Nou Dasher! Nou, Dancer! Nou, Prancer an Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donner an Blitzen!
Tae the tap o the portche! Tae the tap o the waw!
Nou dash awa! Dash awa! Dash awa aw!”
As dry blades ‘at afore the wild skailwind flee,
Whan thay meet wi’ sticks, lowp tae the lift.

Sae up tae the hoose-tap the courseirs thay flew,
Wi’ the sleigh fou o toys, an St Nicholas tae.
An than, in a prinkle, ah haurd on the ruif
The brankit an pautit o ilk wee cluif.

As ah drew in ma heid, an wis turnt aroond,
Doun the lum St. Nicholas cam wi a lowp.
He wis dressed aw in fur, frae his heid tae his buits,
An hus claes war aw tairnisht wi ess an suit.

A bunnle o toys he hae flung on his back,
An he leukit like a cadger, just appent his pack.
His een—hou thay glentit! His dimples hou mirkie!
His cheeks war like roses, his nib like a cherry!
His droll wee gab wis drawn up like a bowe,
An the beard o his chin wis as white as the snaw.
The runt o a gun he huild ticht in his teeth,
An the feuch it encircled his heid like a wreath.
He hae a braid face an a wee roond kyte,
‘At sheuk, whan he laucht, like a bowlful o jeely!
He wis chuffie an gausie, a richt sonsie auld elf,
An ah laucht whan ah saw him, in maugre o masel!
A wink o his een an a twistle o his heid,
Suin gae me tae ken ah hae nocht tae dreid.

He spak nae a wird, but gaed straucht tae his wark,
An fillit aw the hose; than turnt wi a jirk.
An laying his finger aside o his nib,
An giein a nod, up the lum he rose!
He breest tae his sleigh, tae his team gae a whistle,
An awa thay aw flew like the doun o a thristle.
But ah haurd him golder, ‘ere he druive oot o sicht,
“Merry Christmas tae aw, an tae aw a Guid-nicht!”

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

James Leigh Hunt

The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Robert Frost.

 Note:

How to Scientifically Explain Santa Claus to Your Children

The Santa questions start firing at you before your kids turn five. How does he speed around the world in a single night? How does he know what I want? Sure, you could lie and deny Santa's existence, but be ready for some tears.

The good news is, there are perfectly reasonable answers to the many questions relating to his annual mission. The bad news: The science involved is typically beyond the reach of the average six year old. Most graduate students can't understand the specifics of wormhole formation. Second-graders? Forget it.

Don't worry, though: I am a professional. Follow this simple* guide, and explain Santa's magical mission with science and technology.

How does he deliver so many presents in a single night?

The new movie Arthur Christmas describes a high-tech military-style global operation. In 1994's Miracle on 34th Street, Santa says he can slow time, and in Elf he's got a hot rod sleigh. But none of these techniques could truly get St. Nick into all those living rooms in one night.

Santa clearly uses wormholes, the tunnels through space and time that allow travelers to jump from one side of the cosmos to the other or—in this case, from one neighborhood to the next. But trying to give your kid a primer on relativity, gravity and negative energy would be pointless. Instead, take a piece of paper, draw a picture of your house on one half, then a friend's home on the opposite one. Trace a line from one side of the sheet to the other to represent the standard path—the route Santa would take in an airborne sleigh. Now fold the paper down the middle so the two houses are back-to-back, one on either side.

You don't have to get into the curvature of space-time, but you can tell your kids that Santa uses deep scientific knowledge to see a different map of the universe, one that contains roads most people don't know about. The Jolly Old Elf may have found a way to jump or drop from one house to the next without having to travel along the same line you'd use. If they're still asking questions after that, pull up Time Bandits on Netflix streaming. If that doesn't satisfy, you might have a future physicist.

How does Santa do it all without being seen?

Obviously, his suit allows him to become invisible. Again, though, explaining exactly how this works can be tricky. We see everything around us because objects and people and plants give off light. When he wants to hide, however, Santa's suit cloaks him from view by deflecting and re-routing the light in the room. There are such materials in research labs today, but you're better off showing your kids a simpler example of this kind of cloaking technique, such as this new adaptive camouflage system.

How does he know if I've been good or bad?

The idea of someone watching your every move terrifies most adults, but kids can deal with it. A reasonable explanation would be that Santa has a fleet of robotic flying drones, each of which records HD video and audio, then relays this data, via satellite, back to the North Pole. If your kids are doubtful, show them these videos of Aerovironment Inc.'s amazing new hummingbird aerial vehicle.

Is Santa really immortal?

Of course not. He's just very, very old. And if your little one wants to know how it is that he has lived so long, try a car analogy. When a part of the family sedan breaks down, we take it to the shop to have it replaced, and the car keeps running. The same holds for Santa. When one of his essential parts, such as his egg-nog-soaked liver, needs replacement, his robotic surgeons replace it with an artificial, newly-printed organ. If any more questions follow, bring up this TED talk. They'll either become a doctor or fall asleep. Either way you're set.

How does he read so many wish lists?

Although it's nice to picture the old guy sitting at a desk, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, reading through stacks of illegible wish lists, this would take forever. Kids get a kick out of big numbers, so it might be worth running through some hypotheticals. If Santa were to receive 10 million wish lists, and take a mere 20 seconds to read and choose an item from each one, the whole job would take him a little more than six years. And that's without a break. Instead, I'd suggest that he uses a rapid document scanner in tandem with optical character recognition software. In short, his computers read the notes for him.

Finally, if you're asked why elves have pointy ears, the answer is should be obvious. They are Vulcans.

A very Merry Christmas to all of you out there, even the Sassenach amoung you. May God's blessing follow you and yours.

Now mind - Hogmanay is just a week away.


The Honourable Dugual Blackthorn-Badger;

The Imperious Teddybear Zouaves, 
The Queen's Own Pig Irregulars, 
The Fearsome First Fencibles, 
The First Dragon Dragoon Guards,
The Minders, 
The Watchers, 
The Rinosasuaris Resplendent Redoubatables and 

all the Taylor's including Miss Poppy The Dog.

                  

 The Huron Carol

Have courage, you who are humans; Jesus, he is born
Behold, the spirit who had us as prisoners has fled
Do not listen to it, as it corrupts the spirits of our minds
Jesus, he is born
They are spirits, sky people, coming with a message for us
They are coming to say, "Rejoice"
Marie, she has just given birth. Rejoice"
Jesus, he is born

Three have left for such, those who are elders
Tichion, a star that has just appeared on the horizon leads them there
 He will seize the path, he who leads them there
 Jesus, he is born
As they arrived there, where he was born, Jesus
the star was at the point of stopping, not far past it
Having found someone for them, he says, "Come here!"
Jesus, he is born
Behold, they have arrived there and have seen Jesus,
They praised (made a name) many times, saying "Hurrah, he is good in nature"
They greeted him with reverence (greased his scalp many times), saying 'Hurray'
Jesus, he is born
"We will give to him praise for his name,
Let us show reverence for him as he comes to be compassionate to us.
It is providential that you love us and wish, 'I should adopt them.'"
Jesus, he is born.


In The Huron
Es-ten-nia-lon de tson-ou-e
Jesous a-ha-ton-hia,
On-naou-a-te-ou-a d'o-ki
N'on-ouan-da-skoua-en-tak;
En-non-chien skou-a-tri-ho-tat,
N'on-ou-an-di-lon-ra-cha-tha,
Jesous a-ha-ton-hia,
Jesous a-ha-ton-hi-a 
St. Jean de Brebeuf

 Oh Come, All Ye Faithful

O come, all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant,
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem;
Come and behold him,

Born the King of angels;
O come, let us adore him,
O come, let us adore him,
O Come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord.

Sing, choirs of angels,
Sing in exultation,
Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above;
Glory to God
In the highest;

See how the shepherds,
Summoned to his cradle,
Leaving their flocks, draw nigh to gaze;
We too will thither
Bend our joyful footsteps;

Child, for us sinners
Poor and in the manger,
We would embrace thee, with love and awe;
Who would not live thee,
Loving us so dearly?

Yea, Lord, we greet thee,
Born this happy morning;
Jesus, to thee be glory given;
Word of the Father,
Now in flesh appearing;

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.

The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.

Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.

In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.

The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.

‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

The Ballad Of The Carpenter


Jesus was a working man
And a hero you will hear
Born in the town of Bethlehem
At the turning of the year
At the turning of the year

When Jesus was a little lad
Streets rang with his name
For he argued with the older men
And put them all to shame
He put them all to shame

He became a wandering journeyman
And he traveled far and wide
And he noticed how wealth and poverty
Live always side by side
Live always side by side

So he said "Come you working men
Farmers and weavers too
If you would only stand as one
This world belongs to you
This world belongs to you"

When the rich men heard what the carpenter had done
To the Roman troops they ran
Saying put this rebel Jesus down
He's a menace to God and man
He's a menace to God and man

The commander of the occupying troops
Just laughed and then he said
"There's a cross to spare on Calvaries hill
By the weekend he'll be dead
By the weekend he'll be dead"

Now Jesus walked among the poor
For the poor were his own kind
And they'd never let them get near enough
To take him from behind
To take him from behind

So they hired one of the traders trade
And an informer was he
And he sold his brother to the butchers men
For a fistful of silver money
For a fistful of silver money

And Jesus sat in the prison cell
And they beat him and offered him bribes
To desert the cause of his fellow man
And work for the rich men's tribe,
To work for the rich men's tribe

And the sweat stood out on Jesus' brow
And the blood was in his eye
When they nailed his body to the Roman cross
And they laughed as they watched him die
They laughed as they watched him die

Two thousand years have passed and gone
Many a hero too
But the dream of this poor carpenter
Remains in the hands of you
Remains in the hands of you

Phil Ochs

In the Bleak Midwinter 

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

Christina Rossetti

First Christmas

This day a year ago, he was rolling in the snow
With a younger brother in his father's yard
Christmas break, a time for touching home,
The heart of all he'd known
And leaving was so hard
Three thousand miles away,
Now he's working Christmas Day
Making double time for the minding of the store
Well he always said, he'd make it on his own
He's spending Christmas Eve alone
First Christmas away from home
She's standing by the train station,
Pan-handling for change
Four more dollars buys a decent meal and a room
Looks like the Sally Ann place after all,
In a crowded sleeping hall
That echoes like a tomb
But it's warm and clean and free,
And there are worse places to be
At least it means no beating from her Dad
And if she cries because it's Christmas Day
She hopes that it won't show
First Christmas away from home
In the apartment stands a tree,
And it looks so small and bare
Not like it was meant to be,
Golden angel on the top
It's not that same old silver star,
You wanted for your own
First Christmas away from home
In the morning, they get prayers,
Then it's crafts and tea downstairs
Then another meal back in his little room
Hoping maybe that "the boys"
Will think to phone before the day is gone
Well, it's best they do it soon
When the "old girl" passed away,
He fell apart more every day
Each had always kept the other pretty well
But the kids all said the nursing home was best
Cause he couldn't live alone
First Christmas away from home
In the common room they've got the biggest tree
And it's huge and cold and lifeless
Not like it ought to be,
And the lit-up flashing Santa Claus on top
It's not that same old silver star,
You once made for your own
First Christmas away from home.

Stan Rogers

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’ 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Two Fusiliers

And have we done with War at last?
Well, we've been lucky devils both,
And there's no need of pledge or oath
To bind our lovely friendship fast,
By firmer stuff
Close bound enough.

By wire and wood and stake we're bound,
By Fricourt and by Festubert,
By whipping rain, by the sun's glare,
By all the misery and loud sound,
By a Spring day,
By Picard clay.

Show me the two so closely bound
As we, by the red bond of blood,
By friendship, blossoming from mud,
By Death: we faced him, and we found
Beauty in Death,
In dead men breath.

Robert Graves

To The RAF


Never since English ships went out
To singe the beard of Spain,
Or English sea-dogs hunted death
Along the Spanish Main,
Never since Drake and Raleigh won
Our freedom of the seas,
Have sons of Britain dared and done
More valiantly than these.

Whether at midnight or at noon,
Through mist or open sky,
Eagles of freedom, all our hearts
Are up with you on high;
While Britain's mighty ghosts look down
From realms beyond the sun
And whisper, as their record pales,
Their breathless, deep, Well Done!

  Alfred Noyes

The Young British Soldier

WHEN the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
    Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
    So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruiters what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
    A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
    An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
    An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
    An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
    That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
    Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
    An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
    And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
    An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
    For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
    And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
    An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
    So-oldier of the Queen!

Rudyard Kipling

The Soldier’s Return: A Ballad


WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I’d been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.


A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander:
I thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.


At length I reach’d the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass’d the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother’s dwelling!
And turn’d me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.


Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That’s dearest to thy bosom:
My purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I’ve serv’d my king and country lang—
Take pity on a sodger.”


Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me,
And lovelier was than ever;
Quo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it;
That gallant badge-the dear cockade,
Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.”


She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose—
Syne pale like only lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
“Art thou my ain dear Willie?”
“By him who made yon sun and sky!
By whom true love’s regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.


“The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
And mair we’se ne’er be parted.”
Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish’d fairly;
And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad,
Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!”


For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger’s prize,
The sodger’s wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne’er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s his country’s stay,
In day and hour of danger.


Robert Burns

The Man From Athabaska


Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming
   Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
   Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me;
   'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.

And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder,
   For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar;
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder,
   And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War;
   'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.

Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying,
   And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do?
Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying,
   As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe:
   Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view.

Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.
   You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so."
"But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty.
   And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers -- no!"
   So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago.

For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter
   In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away;
And the partner on my right hand was an apache from Montmartre;
   On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A.
   (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)

But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago,
   And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and `blagues' me all the day.
I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago,
   And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away.
   Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.

And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming
   In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea,
Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing;
   And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be:
   Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me!

And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle,
   Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore;
And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle,
   And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more;
   While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.

And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling,
   And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track;
And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling,
   And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac;
   And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.

So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring,
   And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe;
And I yarn of fur and feather when the `marmites' are a-soaring,
   And they listen to my stories, seven `poilus' in a row,
   Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cigarettes aglow.

And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska;
   And those seven greasy poilus they are crazy to go too.
And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her
   The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo,
   And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew.

For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered,
   And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore,
And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered,
   For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore;
And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly,
   And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore.

 Robert W. Service

The Irish Guards

WE'RE not so old in the Army List,

But we're not so young at our trade.

For we had the honour at Fontenoy

Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.

'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,

And Lee that led us then,

And after a hundred and seventy years

We're fighting for France again!

Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,

Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,

And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!

The fashion's all for khaki now,

But once through France we went

Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,

The English - left at Ghent.

They're fighting on our side today

But, before they changed their clothes,

The half of Europe knew our fame,

As all of Ireland knows!

Old Days! The wild geese are flying,

Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish there's memory undying.

And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,

From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,

The ancient days come back no more

Than water under the bridge.

But the bridge it stands and the water runs

As red as yesterday,

And the Irish move to the sound of the guns

Like salmon to the sea.

Old Days! The wild geese are ranging .

Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,

And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!

We're not so old in the Army List,

But we're not so new in the ring,

For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe

When Louis was our King.

But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now

And we're King George's men,

And after one hundred and seventy years

We're fighting for France again!

Ah, France! And did we stand by you,

When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?

Ah, France! And will we deny you

In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?

Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,

Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,

And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!

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 --
    God, 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 shell-swept slope,
    With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
    Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
    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!"
    If passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
    And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank 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 Private of the Buffs

 LAST night, among his fellow roughs,   
  He jested, quaff’d, and swore:   
A drunken private of the Buffs,   
  Who never look’d before.   
To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown,           
  He stands in Elgin’s place,   
Ambassador from Britain’s crown,   
  And type of all her race.   

Poor, reckless, rude, lowborn, untaught,   
  Bewilder’d, and alone,           
A heart, with English instinct fraught,   
  He yet can call his own.   
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,   
  Bring cord, or axe, or flame:   
He only knows, that not through him           
  Shall England come to shame.   

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem’d,   
  Like dreams, to come and go;   
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam’d,   
  One sheet of living snow;           
The smoke, above his father’s door,   
  In gray soft eddyings hung:   
Must he then watch it rise no more,   
  Doom’d by himself, so young?   

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel           
  He put the vision by.   
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;   
  An English lad must die.   
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,   
  With knee to man unbent,           
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,   
  To his red grave he went.   

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram’d;   
  Vain, those all-shattering guns;   
Unless proud England keep, untam’d,           
  The strong heart of her sons.   
So, let his name through Europe ring—   
  A man of mean estate,   
Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,   
  Because his soul was great.           


Sir Francis Hastings Doyle

The Eve of Waterloo


There was a sound of revelry by night,
     And Belgium’s Capital had gathered then
     Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
     The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men ;
     A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
     Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
     Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
     And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,
     Or the car rattling o’er the stony street ;
     On with the dance! let joy be unconfined ;
     No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
     To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—
     But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
     As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
     And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
     Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear
     That sound the first amidst the festival,
     And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
     And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
     His heart more truly knew that peal too well
     Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
     And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
     And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
     And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
     Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
     And there were sudden partings, such as press
     The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
     Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess
     If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
     The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
     Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
     And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
     And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
     And near, the beat of the alarming drum
     Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
     While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe! They come! they come!’

And wild and high the ‘Cameron’s Gathering’ rose!
     The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills
     Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—
     How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
     Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
     Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
     With the fierce native daring which instils
     The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
     Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,
     Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,
     Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
     Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
     Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
     In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
     Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
     Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay,
     The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
     The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
     Battle’s magnificently-stern array!
     The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent
     The earth is covered thick with other clay
     Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!


Lord Byron

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner


From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

    -- Randall Jarrell

On a Wing and a Prayer

One of our planes was missing
Two hours overdue
One of our planes was missing
With all its gallant crew
The radio sets were humming
We waited for a word
Then a noise broke
Through the humming and this is what we heard

Comin' in on a wing and a prayer
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer
Though there's one motor gone
We can still carry on
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer

What a show, what a fight, boys
We really hit our target for tonight
How we sing as we limp through the air
Look below, there's our field over there
With just one motor gone
We can still carry on
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer

Harold Adamson and Jimmie McHugh

Men Behind The Guns


Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
and here's to the captain bold,
and glory more for the commodore,
when the deeds of might are told.

 
They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
when the great shells roar and pound,
and never they fear when the foe is near
to lay their orders down--

      But off with your hats and three times three
      for every sailor's son
      for the men below who fight the foe,
      the men behind the guns:
      oh, the men behind the guns.

Their hearts a-pounding heavy when
they swing to port once more --
with never enough of the greenback stuff,
they start for the leave ashore.

And you'd think perhaps the blue-blouse chaps
had better clothes to wear,
for the uniforms of officers
could hardly be compared:

      Warriors bold with straps of gold
      that dazzle like the sun
      outshine the common sailor boys,
      the lads who serve the guns:
      oh, the men behind the guns.

Say not a word till the shot is heard
that tells the fight is on,
and the angry sound of another round
that says they must be gone.

Over the deep and the deadly sweep,
the fire and the bursting shell,
where the very air is a mad despair,
the throes of a living hell.

      But down and deep in a mighty ship
      unseen by the midday sun
      you'll find the boys who make the noise,
      the lads who serve the guns:
      oh, the men behind the guns.

And well they know the cyclone blow
Loose from the cannon's steel.
The know the hull of the enemy ship
Will quiver with the peal.

And the decks will rock with the lightning shock
And shake with the great recoil
While the sea grows red with the blood of the dead
And swallows up her spoil.

      But not until the final ship
      has made her final run
      can we give their rest to the very best:
      to the lads who serve the guns --
      oh, the men behind the guns.

Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
And here's to the captain bold,
And glory more for the commodore,
When the deeds of might are told.

They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
When the great shells roar and pound,
And never they fear when the foe is near
To lay their orders down--

      But off with your hats and three times three
      For every sailor's son,
      For the men below who fight the foe,
      The men behind the guns:
      Oh, the man behind the gun.

John Rooney

MacDonnell On The Heights


Too thin the line that charged the Heights
And scrambled in the clay.
Too thin the Eastern Township Scot
Who showed them all the way,
And perhaps had you not fallen,
You might be what Brock became
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

To say the name, MacDonnell,
It would bring no bugle call
But the Redcoats stayed beside you
When they saw the General fall.
Twas MacDonnell raised the banner then
And set the Heights aflame,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.

At Queenston now, the General on his tower stands alone
And there's lichen on 'MacDonnell' carved upon that weathered stone
In a corner of the monument to glory you could claim,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.


Stan Rogers

'Is my team ploughing?

‘Is my team ploughing,
     That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
     When I was man alive?’

Ay, the horses trample,
     The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
     The land you used to plough.

‘Is football playing
     Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
     Now I stand up no more?’

Ay, the ball is flying,
     The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
     Stands up to keep the goal.

‘Is my girl happy,
     That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
     As she lies down at eve?’

Ay, she lies down lightly,
     She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
     Be still, my lad, and sleep.

‘Is my friend hearty,
     Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
      A better bed than mine?’

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.
 
A.E. Housman

Hold the Line

We were farm boys in the spring of 'fourteen
A few miles from mother's door the furthest I'd ever been.
One short month of training and we're off to foreign shores to hold the line.

And now a year's gone by and I've never let my mind count the minutes of these murders, the brothers now behind.

"We'll all go home by Christmas. The weather will be kind. Will you hold the line?"

"Your mask protects you from the poison yellow smoke."
"They will time their charge to take you when they think the line has broken."
"None of them expecting that we got their trenches mined."
"And we'll hold the line."

They sent us out to murder on the empty foreign fields.
There is crimson in the umber of a kind that doesn't yield.
Our youth gave in to anger, our shoulder to the toil.
A million names and faces in a mile of bloody soil.

Have I been here a lifetime or just these thousand horrid days?
Will the guns ever go silent?
Will the winds of time erase the scars upon the battlefield?
The world within our mind while we hold the line?

And of all the faces that have come and gone (while in this tomb I've grown),
The one I've come to like the least's the one that is my own.
For within this bloodied hero a murderer you find and you hold the line.
Hold the line.

Nathan Rogers

Guns of Verdun

Guns of Verdun point to Metz
From the plated parapets;
Guns of Metz grin back again
O'er the fields of fair Lorraine.
Guns of Metz are long and grey,
Growling through a summer day;
Guns of Verdun, grey and long,
Boom an echo of their song.
Guns of Metz to Verdun roar,
"Sisters, you shall foot the score;"
Guns of Verdun say to Metz
"Fear not, for we pay our debts."
Guns of Metz they grumble, "When?"
Guns of Verdun answer then,
"Sisters, when to guard Lorraine
Gunners lay you East again!"


Patrick R. Chalmers

Fleurette


            (The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

            My leg? It's off at the knee.
            Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
                I've had it since I was born;
                And lately a devilish corn.
            (I rather chuckle with glee
                To think how I've fooled that corn.)

            But I'll hobble around all right.
                It isn't that, it's my face.
            Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
                Hardly a thing in place;
            Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
                Nurse won't give me a glass,
                But I see the folks as they pass
            Shudder and turn away;
                Turn away in distress . . .
                Mirror enough, I guess.

            I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;
                But I wasn't a while ago.
            If you'd seen me even to-day,
                The darndest picture of woe,
            With this Caliban mug of mine,
                So ravaged and raw and red,
            Turned to the wall -- in fine,
                Wishing that I was dead. . . .
            What has happened since then,
                Since I lay with my face to the wall,
            The most despairing of men?
                Listen! I'll tell you all.

            That poilu across the way,
                With the shrapnel wound in his head,
            Has a sister: she came to-day
                To sit awhile by his bed.
            All morning I heard him fret:
                "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

            Then sudden, a joyous cry;
                The tripping of little feet,
            The softest, tenderest sigh,
                A voice so fresh and sweet;
            Clear as a silver bell,
                Fresh as the morning dews:
            "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!
                Mon fre^re, comme je suis heureuse!"

            So over the blanket's rim
                I raised my terrible face,
            And I saw -- how I envied him!
                A girl of such delicate grace;
            Sixteen, all laughter and love;
                As gay as a linnet, and yet
            As tenderly sweet as a dove;
                Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.

            Then I turned to the wall again.
                (I was awfully blue, you see),
            And I thought with a bitter pain:
                "Such visions are not for me."
            So there like a log I lay,
                All hidden, I thought, from view,
            When sudden I heard her say:
                "Ah! Who is that malheureux?"
            Then briefly I heard him tell
                (However he came to know)
            How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
                Into the trench, and so
            None of my men were hit,
                Though it busted me up a bit.

            Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
                And he chattered and there she sat;
            And I fancied I heard her sigh --
                But I wouldn't just swear to that.
            And maybe she wasn't so bright,
                Though she talked in a merry strain,
            And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
                Yet I saw her ever so plain:
            Her dear little tilted nose,
                Her delicate, dimpled chin,
            Her mouth like a budding rose,
                And the glistening pearls within;
            Her eyes like the violet:
            Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.

            And at last when she rose to go,
                The light was a little dim,
            And I ventured to peep, and so
                I saw her, graceful and slim,
            And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
                How I envied and envied him!

            So when she was gone I said
                In rather a dreary voice
            To him of the opposite bed:
                "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
            But me, I'm a thing of dread.
                For me nevermore the bliss,
                The thrill of a woman's kiss."

            Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
                And a great light shone in her eyes;
            And me! I could only stare,
                I was taken so by surprise,
            When gently she bent her head:
                "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.

            Then she kissed my burning lips
                With her mouth like a scented flower,
            And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
                And I hadn't even the power
            To say: "God bless you, dear!"
            And I felt such a precious tear
                Fall on my withered cheek,
                And darn it! I couldn't speak.

            And so she went sadly away,
                And I knew that my eyes were wet.
            Ah, not to my dying day
                Will I forget, forget!
            Can you wonder now I am gay?
                God bless her, that little Fleurette!