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