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!