Volume 156 — TO A CHINESE COOLIE.

O happy Chink! When I behold thy face, Illumined with the all-embracing smile Peculiar to thy celestial race, So full of mirth and yet so free from guile, I stand amazed and let my fancy roam, And ask myself by what mysterious lure Thou wert induced to leave thy flowery home For Flanders, where, alas! the flowers are fewer. Oft have I marked thee on the Calais quay, Unloading ships of plum-and-apple jam, Or beef, or, three times weekly, M. and V., And sometimes bacon (very rarely ham); Or, where St. Quentin towers above the plain, Have seen thee scan the awful scene and sigh, Pick up a spade, then put it down again And wipe a furtive tear-drop from thine eye. And many a Sabbath have I seen thee stride With stately step across the Merville Square, Beaming with pleasure, full of conscious pride, Breaking the hearts of all the jeunes filles there; A bowler hat athwart thy stubborn locks And round thy neck a tie of brilliant blue, Thy legs in football shorts, thy feet in socks Of silken texture and vermilion hue. Impassive Chu (or should I call thee "Chow"?), Say, what hast thou to do with all this fuss, The ceaseless hurry and the beastly row, The buzzing plane and roaring motor-bus, While far away the sullen Hwang-ho rolls His lazy waters to the Eastern Sea, And sleepy mandarins sit on bamboo poles Imbibing countless cups of China tea? A year ago thou digged'st in feverish haste Against the whelming onset of the Hun A hundred miles of trench across the waste— A year ago—and now the War is won; But thou remainest still with pick and spade, Celestial delver, patient son of toil! To fill the trenches thou thyself hast made And roll the twisted wire in even coil. But not for thee the glory and the praise, The medals or the fat gratuity; No man shall crown thee with a wreath of bays Or recommend thee for the O.B.E.; And thou, methinks, wouldst rather have it so, Provided that, without undue delay, They let thee take thy scanty wage and go Back to thy sunny home in Old Cathay; Where never falls a shell nor bursts a bomb, Nor ever blows the slightest whiff of gas, Such as was not infrequent in the Somme, But on thy breast shall lean some slant-eyed lass; And she shall listen to thy converse ripe And search for souvenirs among thy kit, Pass thee thy slippers and thy opium pipe And make thee glad that thou hast done thy bit.