The War

There sits a little demon Above the Admiralty, To take the news of seamen Seafaring on the sea; So all the folk aboard-ships Five hundred miles away Can pitch it to their Lordships At any time of day.

The cruisers prowl observant; Their crackling whispers go; The demon says, "Your servant," And lets their Lordships know; A fog's come down off Flanders? A something showed off Wick? The captains and commanders Can speak their Lordships quick.

The demon sits a-waking; Look up above Whitehall— E'en now, mayhap, he's taking The Greatest Word of all; From smiling folk aboard-ships He ticks it off the reel:— "An' may it please your Lordships: A Fleet's put out o' Kiel!"

P. R. CHALMERS. Nov. 11, 1914.

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!"

P. R. CHALMERS. Sept. 2, 1914.

Not this year will the hamadryads sing The old-time songs of Arcady that ran Down the Lycæan glades; the joyous ring Of satyr dancers call away their clan; Not this year follow on the ripened Spring The Summer pipes of Pan.

Cometh a time—as times have come before— When the loud legions rushing in array, The flying bullet and the cannon roar, Scatter the Forest Folk in pale dismay To hie them far from their green dancing floor, And wait a happier day.

Yet think not that your Forest Folk are dead; To this old haunt, when friend has vanquished foe, They will return anon with lightsome tread And labour that this place they love and know, All broken now and bruised, may raise its head And still in beauty grow.

Wherefore they wait the coming of good time In the green English woods down Henley way, In meadows where the tall cathedrals chime, Or watching from the white St. Margaret's Bay, Or North among the heather hills that climb Above the Tweed and Tay.

And you, our fighters in the woods of France, Take heart and smite their enemy, the Hun, Who knows not Arcady, by whom the dance Of fauns is scattered, at whose deeds the sun Hides in despair; strike boldly and perchance The work will soon be done.

To you, so fighting, messengers will bring The comfort of quiet places; in the din Of battle you shall hear the murmuring Of the home winds and waters; there will win Through to your hearts the word, "Still Pan is king; His Midsummer is in."

C. HILTON BROWN. June 23, 1915.

Brier rose and woodbine flaunting by the wayside, Field afoam with ox-eyes, crowfoot's flaming gold, Poppies in the corn-rig, broom on every braeside, Once again 'tis summer as in years of old— Only in my bosom lags the winter's cold.

All among the woodland hyacinths are gleaming; O the blue of heaven glinting through the trees! Lapped in noonday languor Nature lies a-dreaming, Lulled to rest by droning clover-haunting bees. (Deeper dreams my dear love, slain beyond the seas.)

Lost against the sunlight happy larks are singing, Lowly list their loved ones nestled in the plain; Bright about my pathway butterflies are winging, Fair and fleet as moments mourned for now in vain— In my eyes the shadow, at my heart the pain.

A. B. GILLESPIE. July 28, 1915.

For an extra drink Defaulters we, We cuts the lawn in front of the Mess; We're shoved in clink, Ten days C.B., And rolls the lawn in front of the Mess.

We picks up weeds And 'umps the coal; We trims the lawn in front of the Mess; We're plantin' seeds, The roads we roll, Likewise the lawn in front of the Mess.

The Officers they Are sloshin' balls On the lawn we've marked in front of the Mess; And every day Our names they call To rake the lawn in front of the Mess.

And once a while They 'as a "do" On the lawn in front of the Officers' Mess. Ain't 'arf some style, Band playin' too, On our bloomin' lawn in front of the Mess.

They dances about And digs their 'eels In our lawn in front of the Officers' Mess; There ain't no doubt As 'ow we feels For the lawn in front of the Officers' Mess.

The turf's gone west, And so you see There ain't much lawn in front of the Mess. We does our best, Gets more C.B., And mends the lawn in front of the Mess.

The C.O., who Sez 'e can see We loves the lawn in front of the Mess 'E knows this too— Without C.B. There'd be no lawn in front of the Mess.

C. T. PEZARE. Aug. 11, 1915.

Mother and Dad, I understand At last why you've for ever been Telling me how that way-off land Of yours was Home; for since I've seen The place that up to now was just a name I feel the same.

The college green, the village hall, St. Paul's, The Abbey, how could I Spell out your meaning, I whose all Was peaks that pricked a sun-down sky And endless prairie lands that stretched below Their pathless snow?

But now I've trodden magic stairs Age-rounded in a Norman fane, Beat time to bells that trembled prayers Down spangly banks of country lane, Throbbed with the universal heart that beats In London streets.

I'd heard of world-old chains that bind So tight that she can scarcely stir, Till tired Old England drops behind Live nations more awake than her, Like us out West. I thought it all was true Before I knew.

But England's sure what she's about, And moves along in work and rest Too big and set for brag and shout, And so I never might have guessed All that she means unless I'd watched her ways These battle-days.

And now I've seen what makes me proud Our chaps have proved a soldier's right To England; glad that I'm allowed My bit with her in field and fight; And since I'm come to join them Over There I claim my share.

C. CONWAY PLUMBE. Sept. 1, 1915.

Marie Thérèse is passing fair, Marie Thérèse has red gold hair, Marie Thérèse is passing shy, And Marie Thérèse is passing by; Soldiers lounging along the street Smile as they rise to their aching feet, And with aching hearts they make their way After the maiden for quat' sous lait.

Beer in the mug is amber brown, Beer in the mug is the stuff to drown Dust and drought and a parching thirst; Beer in the mug comes an easy first, Except when Marie Thérèse is near, With the sun in her tresses so amber clear; Then quickly we leave our estaminets For Marie Thérèse's quat' sous lait.

Yvonne Pol of La Belle Française Cannot compare with Marie Thérèse; Berthe of the "Coq" looks old and staid When one but thinks of our dairymaid; Beer in the mug is good to quench Thirsts of men who can speak no French; Heaven is ours who can smile and say, "Marie Thérèse, give me quat' sous lait."

DENIS GARSTIN. Aug. 18, 1915.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE. Dec. 8, 1915.

O young and brave, it is not sweet to die, To fall and leave no record of the race, A little dust trod by the passers-by, Swift feet that press your lonely resting-place; Your dreams unfinished, and your song unheard— Who wronged your youth by such a careless word?

All life was sweet—veiled mystery in its smile; High in your hands you held the brimming cup; Love waited at your bidding for a while, Not yet the time to take its challenge up; Across the sunshine came no faintest breath To whisper of the tragedy of death.

And then, beneath the soft and shining blue, Faintly you heard the drum's insistent beat; The echo of its urgent note you knew, The shaken earth that told of marching feet; With quickened breath you heard your country's call, And from your hands you let the goblet fall.

You snatched the sword, and answered as you went, For fear your eager feet should be outrun, And with the flame of your bright youth unspent Went shouting up the pathway to the sun. O valiant dead, take comfort where you lie. So sweet to live? Magnificent to die!

MRS. ROBERTSON GLASGOW. Jan. 26, 1916.

Here in the long white ward I stand, Pausing a little breathless space, Touching a restless fevered hand, Murmuring comfort's commonplace—

Long enough pause to feel the cold Fingers of fear about my heart; Just for a moment, uncontrolled, All the pent tears of pity start.

While here I strive, as best I may, Strangers' long hours of pain to ease, Dumbly I question—Far away Lies my beloved even as these?

MISS G. M. MITCHELL. Aug. 30, 1916.

Horses he loved, and laughter, and the sun, A song, wide spaces and the open air; The trust of all dumb living things he won, And never knew the luck too good to share.

His were the simple heart and open hand, And honest faults he never strove to hide; Problems of life he could not understand, But as a man would wish to die he died.

Now, though he will not ride with us again, His merry spirit seems our comrade yet, Freed from the power of weariness or pain, Forbidding us to mourn—or to forget.

W. K. HOLMES. Aug. 1, 1917.

Roving along the King's highway I met wi' a Romany black. "Good day," says I; says he, "Good day, And what may you have in your pack?" "Why, a shirt," says I, "and a song or two To make the road go faster." He laughed: "Ye'll find or the day be through There's more nor that, young master. Oh, roving's good and youth is sweet And love is its own reward; But there's that shall stay your careless feet When ye come to the Sign o' the Sword."

"Riddle me, riddlemaree," quoth I, "Is a game that's ill to win, And the day is o'er fair such tasks to try"— Said he, "Ye shall know at the inn." With that he suited his path to mine And we travelled merrily, Till I was ware of the promised sign And the door of an hostelry. And the Romany sang, "To the very life Ye shall pay for bed and board; Will ye turn aside to the House of Strife? Will ye lodge at the Inn o' the Sword?"

Then I looked at the inn 'twixt joy and fear, And the Romany looked at me. Said I, "We ha' come to a parting here And I know not who you be." But he only laughed as I smote on the door: "Go, take ye the fighting chance; Mayhap I once was a troubadour In the knightly days of France. Oh, the feast is set for those who dare And the reddest o' wine outpoured; And some sleep sound after peril and care At the Hostelry of the Sword."

A. L. JENKINS. Jan. 24, 1917.

Little beam of purest ray Lying like a path of glory Through the chimney-pots that sway Over London's topmost storey, Lighting to the knightly fray Pussies black and brown and gray, Lovesick tenors young and gay, Whiskered bassos old and hoary, Shining from my attic room Thou dost lure them to their doom.

How could I without thine aid Greet their ill-timed serenade? How discover in the dark If the hair-brush found its mark, Or distinguish hits from misses As the whistling soap-dish hisses, Lifting like a bursting bomb James, the next door neighbour's Tom?

Now by nailing half a kipper Neath thy radiance I can down (Aiming carefully at the brown With a bootjack or a slipper) Half the amorous cats in Town. Now as I remove my boots I can count the stricken brutes, Chalking as I pass to bed On the wall above my head, "Thirteen wounded, seven dead."

I have strafed the surly Fritz In the neighbourhood of "Wipers," Bombed the artless Turk to bits, Potted his elusive snipers, Blown his comfortable lair Like a nest of stinging vipers Several hundred feet in air; But the sport was tame, I wis, In comparison with this, When the bottle built for stout Lays the chief soprano out, And the heavy letter-weight Drums on her astonished mate, Ginger Bill, the bass, who falls Uttering fearful caterwauls.

* * * *

(Later.) Baleful shaft of light, Blazing like a ruddy beacon, Guiding through the starless night Zeppelins that come to wreak on Sleeping Londoners the might Of Teutonic schrecklichkeit, Tears bedew the pillow white Which I lay my blenching cheek on, For the minion of the law, Who in peace-time droops and drowses, From a point of vantage saw, Gleaming high above the houses, Thee, incriminating ray, And—there is a fine to pay.

C. H. BRETHERTON. Nov. 8, 1916.

In darkened days of strife and fear, When far from home and hold, I do essay my soul to cheer As did wise men of old; When folk do go in doleful guise And are for life afraid, I to the hills will lift mine eyes From whence doth come mine aid.

I shall my soul a temple make Where hills stand up on high; Thither my sadness shall I take And comfort there descry; For every good and noble mount This message doth extend— That evil men must render count And evil days must end.

For, sooth, it is a kingly sight To see God's mountain tall That vanquisheth each lesser height As great hearts vanquish small; Stand up, stand up, ye holy hills, As saints and seraphs do, That ye may bear these present ills And lead men safely through.

Let high and low repair and go To where great hills endure; Let strong and weak be there to seek Their comfort and their cure; And for all hills in fair array Now thanks and blessings give, And, bearing healthful hearts away, Home go and stoutly live.

C. HILTON BROWN. Aug. 22, 1917.

Master of Arts, how is it with you now? Our spires stand up against the saffron dawn And Isis breaks in silver at the prow Of many a skiff, and by each dewy lawn Purple and gold the tall flag-lilies stand; And SHELLEY sleeps above his empty tomb Hard by the staircase where you had your room, And all the scented lilacs are in bloom, But you are far from this our fairy-land.

Your heavy wheel disturbs the ancient dust Of empires dead ere Oxford saw the light. Those flies that form a halo round your crust And crawl into your sleeping-bag at night— Their grandsires drank the blood of NADIR SHAH, And tapped the sacred veins of SULEYMAN; There flashed dread TIMOUR'S whistling yataghan, And soothed the tiger ear of GENGHIZ KHAN The cream of Tartary's battle-drunk "Heiyah!"

And yonder, mid the colour and the cries Of mosque and minaret and thronged bazaars And fringéd palm-trees dark against the skies HARUN AL RASCHID walked beneath the stars And heard the million tongues of old Baghdad, Till out of Basrah, as the dawn took wing, Came up the laden camels, string on string; But now there is not left them anything Of all the wealth and wisdom that they had.

Somehow I cannot see you, lean and browned, Chasing the swart Osmanli through the scrub Or hauling railroad ties and "steel mild round" Sunk in the sands of Irak to the hub, Heaping coarse oaths on Mesopotamy; But rather strewn in gentlemanly ease In some cool serdab or beneath the trees That fringe the river-bank you hug your knees And watch the garish East go chattering by.

And at your side some wise old priest reclines And weaves a tale of dead and glorious days When MAMUN reigned; expounds the heavenly signs Whose movements fix the span of mortal days; Touches on Afreets and the ways of Djinns; Through his embroidered tale real heroes pass, RUSTUM the bold and BAHRAM the wild ass, Who never dreamed of using poisoned gas Or spread barbed wire before the foeman's shins.

I think I hear you saying, "Not so much Of waving palm-trees and the flight of years; It's evident that you are out of touch With war as managed by the Engineers. Hot blasts of sherki are our daily treat, And toasted sandhills full of Johnny Turk And almost anything that looks like work, And thirst and flies and marches that would irk A cast-iron soldier with asbestos feet."

Know, then, the thought was fathered by the wish We oldsters feel, that you and everyone Who through the heat and flies conspire to dish The "Drang nach Osten" of the beastly Hun Shall win their strenuous virtue's modest wage. And if at Nishapur and Babylon The cup runs dry, we'll fill it later on, And here where Cherwell soothes the fretful don In flowing sherbet pledge our easeful sage.

C. H. BRETHERTON. June 6, 1917.

By the canal in Flanders I watched a barge's prow Creep slowly past the poplar-trees; and there I made a vow That when these wars are over and I am home at last However much I travel I shall not travel fast.

Horses and cars and yachts and planes: I've no more use for such: For in three years of war's alarms I've hurried far too much; And now I dream of something sure, silent and slow and large; So when the War is over—why, I mean to buy a barge.

A gilded barge I'll surely have, the same as Egypt's Queen, And it will be the finest barge that ever you have seen; With polished mast of stout pitch pine, tipped with a ball of gold, And two green trees in two white tubs placed just abaft the hold.

So when past Pangbourne's verdant meads, by Clieveden's mossy stems, You see a barge all white-and-gold come gliding down the Thames, With tow-rope spun from coloured silks and snow-white horses three, Which stop beside your river house—you'll know the bargee's me.

I'll moor my craft beside your lawn; so up and make good cheer! Pluck me your greenest salads! Draw me your coolest beer! For I intend to lunch with you and talk an hour or more Of how we used to hustle in the good old days of war.

NORMAN DAVEY. Sept. 5, 1917.

"Watchmen, what of the night?" "Rumours clash from the towers; The clocks strike different hours; The vanes point different ways. Through darkness leftward and right Voices quaver and boom, Pealing our victory's praise, Tolling the tocsin of doom."

"Optimist, what of the night?" "Night is over and gone; See how the dawn marches on, Triumphing, over the hills. Armies of foemen in flight Scatter dismay and despair, Wild is the terror that fills War-lords that crouch in their lair."

"Pessimist, what of the night?" "Blackness that walls us about; The last little star has gone out, Whelmed in the wrath of the storm. Exhaustless, resistless in might, The enemy faints not nor fails; Thundering, swarm upon swarm, He sweeps like a flood through the vales.

"Pacifist, what of the night?" "We hear the thunder afar, But all is still where we are; Good and evil are friends. Here in the passionless height War and morality cease, And the noon with the midnight blends In perennial twilight of peace."

H. E. WILKES. Feb. 6, 1918.

Yes, it was all like a garden glowing When first we came to the hill-top there, And we laughed to know that the Bosch was going, And laughed to know that the land was fair; Acre by acre of green fields sleeping, Hamlets hid in the tufts of wood, And out of the trees were church-towers peeping, And away on a hillock the Windmill stood.

Then, ah then, 'twas a land worth winning, And now there is naught but the naked clay, But I can remember the Windmill spinning, And the four sails shone in the sun that day.

But the guns came after and tore the hedges And stripped the spinneys and churned the plain, And a man walks now on the windy ledges And looks for a feather of green in vain; Acre by acre the sad eye traces The rust-red bones of the earth laid bare, And the sign-posts stand in the market-places To say that a village was builded there.

But better the French fields stark and dying Than ripe for a conqueror's fat content, And I can remember the mill-sails flying, Yet I cheered with the rest when the Windmill went.

Away to the East the grass-land surges Acre by acre across the line, And we must go on till the end like scourges, Though the wilderness stretch from sea to Rhine; But I dream some days of a great reveille, When the buds shall burst in the Blasted Wood, And the children chatter in Death-Trap Alley, And a windmill stand where the Windmill stood.

And we that remember the Windmill spinning. We may go under, but not in vain, For our sons shall come in the new beginning And see that the Windmill spins again.

A. P. HERBERT. April 10, 1918.

Into the home-side wood, the long straight aisle of pines, I turned with a slower step than ever my youth-time knew; Dusk was gold in the valley, grey in the deep-cut chines, And below, like a dream afloat, was the quiet sea's fading blue.

Oh, it was joy to see the still night folding down Over the simple fields I loved, saved by the sacred dead, Playmates and friends of mine, brothers in camp and town, The loyal hearts that leapt at the word that England said.

I paused by the cross-roads' sign, for a tinkling sound rang clear, The small sharp sound of a bell away up the western road; And presently out of the mist, with clank and clatter of gear, Rumbled the carrier's cart with its tilt and its motley load:—

The old grey horse that moved in the misty headlight's gleam, The carrier crouched on his seat, with the bellboy perched astride, Voices from under the tilt, and laughter—was it a dream, Or was I awake and alive, standing there by the cross-roads' side?

So I came to the village street where glinting lights shone fair, The little homely lights that make the glad tears start; And I knew that one was yearning and waiting to welcome me there, She that is mother in blood and steadfast comrade in heart.

Oh, but my youth swept back like the tide to a thirsty shore, Or the little wind at dawn that heralds the wash of rain; And I ran, I ran, with a song in my heart to the unlatched door, I returned to the gentle breast that had nursed me—a boy again!

C. KENNETH BURROW. Dec. 18, 1918.

Through the Channel's drift and toss Swift your homing transports churn; Soon for you the Southron Cross High above your bows shall burn; Soon beyond the rolling Bight Gleam the Leeuwin's lance of light.

Rich reward your hearts shall hold, None less dear if long delayed, For with gifts of wattle-gold Shall your country's debt be paid; From her sunlight's golden store She shall heal your hurts of war.

Ere the mantling Channel mist Dim your distant decks and spars, And your flag that victory kissed And Valhalla hung with stars— Crowd and watch our signal fly: "Gallant hearts, good-bye! Good-bye!"

W. H. OGILVIE. Jan. 15, 1919.

If you should go to La Bassée Or Bethune, grey and bare, You'll hear the sweetest bells that play A faint and chiming air; And belfries in each little town Sing out the hour and mark it down.

If you should go to La Bassée Or walk the Bethune street You'll see the lorries pass that way And hear the tramp of feet; And where the road with trees is lined You'll watch the long battalions wind.

But all the clocks that mark the time Are months and years too slow, And all the bells that ring and chime Strike hours of long ago, And all the belfries where you pass Lie tumbled in the dust and grass.

Yet still the long battalions wind. Though all the men are gone, Because one hour has stayed behind And wanders there alone— Yes, one heroic shining hour Chimes on from every fallen tower.

MRS. A. P. TROTTER. Aug. 27, 1919.

Now has the soljer handed in his pack, And "Peace on earth, goodwill to all" been sung; I've got a pension and my ole job back— Me, with my right leg gawn and half a lung; But, Lord! I'd give my bit o' buckshee pay And my gratuity in honest Brads To go down to the field nex' Saturday And have a game o' football with the lads.

It's Saturdays as does it. In the week It's not too bad; there's cinemas and things; But I gets up against it, so to speak, When half-day-off comes round again and brings The smell o' mud an' grass an' sweating men Back to my mind—there's no denying it; There ain't much comfort tellin' myself then, "Thank Gawd, I went toot sweet an' did my bit!"

Oh, yes, I knows I'm lucky, more or less; There's some pore blokes back there who played the game Until they heard the whistle go, I guess, For Time an' Time eternal. All the same It makes me proper down at heart and sick To see the lads go laughing off to play; I'd sell my bloomin' soul to have a kick— But what's the good of talkin', anyway?

E. W. PIGOTT. Jan. 28, 1920.