o > War Poems By "X" /.■ War Poems By "X" Garden City, New York Doubleday, Page & Company 1917 Copyright, 1917, by DOUBLEDAY, PaGE & CoMPANY All rights reserved First Edition, March, igiy i 1^ /5PR -4 (317 ©CU460361 TO the artists* rifles (beloved of mars and minerva) IN THE FIRST BATTALION OF WHICH REGIMENT I HAVE MANY FRIENDS NAM UT OMITTAM PHILIPPUM THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED Con ten ts FACE A Song of Pride for England 3 Sons 7 Unto the End 10 Valour 12 Post Proelium 13 Marching On 16 Sergeant Death 19 Dawn 22 Kitchener 23 For Righteousness' Sake 24 Lovers 26 John Travers Cornwell 27 In the Train 29 Steel-True and Blade-Straight 32 Sursum 34 The Full Share 36 Killed 40 Dying for your Country 42 ►A Chant of Affection 44 The Riddle 49 Ubi Bene 51 Cor Cordium 52 vu Contents PACK A Rhyme of GafFer D 53 •The Ass 57 The Diners 58 A Rhyme of Right or Wrong 61 July I, 1916 64 To the Kaiser 66 JofFre 67 Excuses 71 It 74 1912 76 Towards the Reckoning 80 Verdun 81 Ireland 82 If 84 Wounded 86 Come Young Lads First 88 The Rhyme of the Beast 91 Gaudeamus 93 For Whom it may Concern 95 Slain 97 viii War Poems By "X" A Song of Pride for England I Lo, the stark heavens are stirred: He Cometh, plumed and spurred, To say the undaunted word, England! With high and haughty breath He hails the hordes beneath; This hath he for their teeth — "England again I" II King George in London Town, Sweareth our own's our own: Whose might shall pluck us down, England ? Glories of slaughtered hosts, Splendours of English ghosts Beckon us from our coasts, England again! Ill Shrewd, on our world of seas, Waketh at dawn a breeze Singing bold melodies, England! Rose-red the long day falls, And the frore night wind calls To our proud Admirals, "England again!" IV Our Ensign flutters still On the unshaken hill; Our Bugle vaunteth shrill, England! What of the heathen draff? They are as burning chaff. Into their eyes we laugh, England again! Death in his charnel-house. Rage and the Devil's spouse Hate — ruffle not your brows, England! Blood of your fathers' blood, Bred of great motherhood, Suckled on ancient good — "England again!" VI You shall be steel and ice, Stronger than love, and thrice Stricken for sacrifice, England! You shall bow to the flail, The hammer and the nail. And perish — and prevail, England again! VII While this our little land Hath a man-child to stand. He shall lift up his hand, England, To smite the accursed bars: Out of the din of wars He shall shout to the stars, "England again!" VIII Troop you from field and fold, Market and shop of gold; Let the full tale be told, England! Time beats his pitiless drum, Fate's at her iron loom, For the New Earth, or Doom — England again! Sons I We have sent them forth To Christ's own rood; Their feet are white On the fields of blood, And they must slake Their young desire In wells of death And pits of fire. The red cock crows And the grey cock crows And there is red On Flanders' snows; And sun-scorched sand And thirsty clay Drink a red spilth By Suvla Bay. And where Azizeah's Turrets gleam, And Tigris glitters, Like a dream. Through nights of scent And tinkling sounds, Sleep rose-white dead With rose-red wounds. II I saw the Shadow Count the fair Sum of his takings; Them that were Children in years When they were sped, And now are mighty Being dead. Like galaxies Of stars, they shone In the great places They have won; He sets them there. No sting hath he, And his is not The Victory. 8 And whom he spared I saw return, Ambassadors From his brave bourne- Strong with the wisdom Of the Wars, Bright from the camps Of Conquerors. Unto the End Though the rivers of crystal run blood till the seas are blood, And the lands which were for proud harvests gape livid with death; And the goodness we had of the days is emptied for ever of good, And for ever the balm of the silver night faileth and perisheth; And though from the womb our sons know only to rage and kill, And our daughters forget that a bride is wed not for widow but wife; And War, which the wise of their wisdom accounted the chiefest ill, Boasteth itself for the glory and blessing and purport of life; Yea, though these things were established for ever — how should we quail. Or falter, or doubt that the sheer, stark soul of us shall prevail ? 10 We are done with the laughter and solace, the softness, the bloom, The clusters and sheaves of content, the honey and milk; We are gone from the beautiful places unto the brinks of doom. Where that is sharp which was sweet and that is steel which was silk. And that is woe which was flesh, and hurt which was delight. And the fairest and kindest love must sort with a lurking hate. And the heart of pity be stone within her, and wrong be but right. And our very prayers are for power to punish and desolate; Yea, stript to the spirit we stand, naked and very sure Of naught but the spirit, which, if it triumph not, yet shall endure. II Valour Mounting his stairs oi azure and of gold. The English lark sings in the August weather For joy which knoweth neither tie nor tether And is not troubled if the world grows old; \\ hile you, who were as blithesome and as bold. And held your life lightly as any feather. Sleep the high sleep that dead men sleep together. Careless of what is done and what is told. I know that all our England shone before you When you went down. It made a radiance Even of the front o't Death. Oh, woman's son. You died for England . . . valiant as she that bore you, And sent you forth with a still countenance, And broke her heart for England and lives on! Post Prcelium {Jutland] I Lovely, and mi^htily-thewed Mother of this ^reat brood, Lo, the beatitude Falls on thee like a flood, And folds thee where thou'rt stood Fronting the destinies With comfortable eyes. II Now knowest thou the rose Which to the sweet air blows In thy fair garden-close, And thine own lark that throws Down music as he goes Vaunting to heaven of thee, Are not for the enemy. 13 Ill Now knowest thou the maid Of her young joy unstayed, And matrons who have said Most secret prayers, afraid To tell themselves they prayed— In thy green land shall dwell Safe and inviolable. IV Woodland and russet farm, And hamlet, and the warm And goodly towns where swarm Thy populations. Harm Taketh not in her palm; And never will they know The tread of any foe. For round thee is the sheer Might of the mariner Whom thou didst suckle and rear And give for the ships. No peer Hath he to drive and steer And fight till the last bells The steely citadels. H VI Now knowest thou the deeps Of a verity thine; nor sleeps Nor fails the ward. Who leaps For what thy Amireld keeps, Soweth a wind, and reaps The whirlwind from thy guns, The lightning from thy sons. VII Blessed art thou that sent These to be strawne and spent; And blessed they that went, Singing with heart's content, Unto the sacrament; And blessed they that mourn Whoso shall not return. 15 Marching On I heard the young lads singing In the still morning air, Gaily the n tes came ringing Across the lilac'd square; They sang like happy children Who know not doubt or care, "As WE GO MARCHING ON." And each one sloped a rifle And each one bore a pack; They had no grief to stifle, No tears to wxep, alack; They were too blithe to question Which of them should come back, As they went marching on. i6 IT Oh, thou whose eyes are sorrow. And whose soul is sorrowing, Who knowest that each to-morrow A deeper woe may hring, And knowest that all the comfort Is the very littlest thing While they go marching on! These sons of thine seek glory. As the bridegroom seeks the bride, And who shall tell the story Of their triumph and their pride? Like lovers, for the love of thee They have lain them down and died; And they go marching on. Ill They march by field and city, By every road and way, A march which angels pity And none may stop or stay Till the last head is rested On the last crimson clay; So they go marching on! 17 They march in the broad sunlight And by the lovers' moon; Into the flame and gun-light From morns and eves of June, And Death for their entranced feet Pipes an obsequious tune, And keeps them marching on. IV And mid the battle thunder. And in the fields of blood, They see the untarnished wonder. The healing, and the good Which passeth understanding And can not be understood; And they go marching on. They see the rose's brightness Made perfect and complete. Lilies and snows of whiteness. And wings of gold that beat For ever and for ever Before the Paraclete; And they go marching on. i8 Sergeant Death Oh, Sergeant Death, I've served with you, And chanced my breath A time or two! Fve seen brave men Turn green as sin, When you have coughed, 'Tallin, fall in!" I've heard brave men With cold fear shout. When you have piped, "Fallout, fall out 1" Where'er a lad Would do his part, 'Tis you that probes His inmost heart. 19 Though all be stirred By drums a-roll, 'Tis you that finds The soldier soul, And takes him through The conqueror's drill, And helps him home. Or leaves him still. 'Tis you that puts In one parade Them that were anxious And afraid, And them that were Fed-up and sick, And them that begged You to be quick, And them that gave You laugh for laugh, And bitterer chatF For bitter chaff. . 20 Oh, you are old, And fierce and wise, But there is goodness In your eyes. And still your health Goes round the tents — "The Father of The Regiments!*' 21 Dawn This morning at dazvn I attacked the enemy's second system of defence '^ — Sir Douglas Haig These are the fights of Love and Joy and Men With Fate and Death and the ilHcit Beast, For guerdons, of which Glory is the least And Honour not the highest. The old reign Of Night shall topple, the old Wrongs be slain: Fitting it is that you go to the Feast While ange suns kindle the young-eyed east And bring the breath of Eden back again. Oh soldiers' hour! . . . For now the English rose Flames and is washed with the authentic dew And through the mist her ancient crimson shows: I see your shadows on the waking lawn Like shadows of kings, and all the souls of you Blazoned and bright and panoplied in the dawn. 22 Kitch ener If Death had questioned thee, "Soldier, where wouldst thou take The immitigable blow?" Thou hadst answered, "Let it be Where the battalions shake And break the entrenched foe." Yet wert thou nobly starred And destined. Thou dost die On the grim English sea; Thou goest to the old tarred Great Captains, and shalt lie Pillowed with them eternally. And they shall stir from their rest Each in his lordly shroud. And say, " 'Fore God, we have room, So are the deeps made proud, Behold the glory on his breast. Kitchener of Khartoum!" 23 For Righteousness' Sake Man that is born of a woman — The creature of doom, Who lives that the Shadow may summon Men forth to the tomb; Who knoweth not wages or earning, Who sows not to reap, Whose labour and passion and yearning Must finish with sleep; Who catches in vain at the glory; Whose brightness is rust; Whose days are a breath and a story; Whose house is the dust; Who lies, if he vaunt him of merit, Whose tree bears no fruit. Who quenches the spark of the spirit With lusts of the brute; 24 Yet — standeth erect to the fighting And whirlwind and flame, And squanders himself for the smiting Of Terror and Shame; Who gathereth his weakness and brings it Where furies move; And loves the world so that he flings it Away out of love; Even though he were fashioned to perish By ordinance grim, The Sons of the Morning would cherish Memories of him: Who owing a debt went and paid it, And kept with his blood The Earth for the Wisdom who made it And saw it was good. 25 Lovers He goeth and he returns not. He is dead Their house of joy no further brightness shows, Their loveliness is come unto its close, Their last touch given, and their last kindness said; For him no more the vision of her bent head, For her no more the lily or the rose, Nor any gladness in this place of woes; The book is shut, the bitter lesson read. Yet who shall beat them down ? Though the Abhorred Taketh the groom, and to the bride hath sent The dagger of anguish with the ice-cold hilt. Both of them triumph in a strange content — And out of souls like these will heavens be built And holy cities peopled for the Lord. 26 John Travers Cornwell ''Boy {first class) John Travers CornwelU of Chester, was mortally wounded early in the action. He nevertheless remained standing alone at a most exposed -post quietly awaiting orders till the end of the action, with the guns crew dead and wounded all round him."— Admiral Beatty Mortally hurt, alone he stood, England, in thy great fortitude. While his spent shipmates round him lay He held on in thine ancient way — A stripling with the veteran eye For the hard front of destiny. Effacing Time shall not destroy The memory of this, thy boy. 27 On his young head the glory falls, As on the lordliest admirals; Fate sets his name in honour grim And even Death is proud of him. a8 In the Train There's a soldier By gad! Yes!— See her gi* me That there kiss ?- All the people Crowdin' by: An' her a maid As shy as shy! — Kiss'd me fair An' plain an' free Before the blessed Company — Whisper'd when I bent my head- Mustn't tell you What she said! 29 Little 'un, But very smart, Stands no higher Than my heart! An' that straight An' unafraid, — Like a corporal On parade! Smiles, an* loves you With her eyes: Steadies you. And keeps you wise; Learns you all There is to know: Makes you feel It's good to go! Women's funny — So they are! But who taught 'em About war ? Where'd they learn Their bit of drill? Who is it took 'em Through the mill ? 30 And gave 'em grit Enough for ten, An' sense to share it With the men ? An' made 'em so They'd rather die Than let a soldier See 'em cry? An' gives *em strength And nerve and grace To look the postman In the face? Oh, don't forget it, Mother's son — They're soldiers, soldiers Everyone! Soldiers loving Them that's gone. Soldiers, soldiers "Holding on"— Proudest Regiment Ever known, — Let us call 'em "The Lord's Own." 31 Steel-True and Blade-Straight I Steel-true and blade-straight — There*s your man! And soon or late He is England — all of her; All the Blood that makes her fair. All the Soul that makes her great, Steel-true and blade-straight. II Steel-true and blade-straight — Neither puffed out, nor elate, Neither glad, nor sad, nor sorr}% Seeking neither grace nor glory, Steadfast at the battered gate — Steel-true and blade-straight. 32 Ill Steel-true and blade-straight — Let the pillars of the State Wrangle to their hearts* content — His to fend and thrust and feint, His to watch and ward and wait, Steel-true and blade-straight. IV Steel-true and blade-straight — While we bawl and perorate, Big with **ifs" about our war — He, the undoubting conqueror. Knocks the nonsense out of Fate- Steel-true and blade-straight. 33 Sursum I saw his dread plume gleaming, As he rode down the line, And cried like one a-dreaming "That man, and that, is mine!" They did not fail or falter Because his front so shone; His horse's golden halter With star-dust thick was sown. They followed him like seigneurs. Proud both of mien and mind- Colonels and old campaigners And bits of lads new-joined. A glittering way he showed them Beyond the dim outpost, And in his tents bestowed them — White as the Holy Ghost. 34 And, by the clear watch-fires, They talk with conquerors, And have their hearts* desires, And praise the honest wars. And each of them in raiment Of honour goeth drest, And hath his fee and payment, And glory on his breast. O woman, that sit'st weeping — Close, like the stricken dove,- He is in goodly keeping, The soldier thou didst love! 35 The Full Share "/ take my full share of responsibility for the initiation that operation — my full share. . . . I do not propose adopt the attitude of a white-sheeted penitent, with a cowp of cayidlesy one i?i each hand, doing penance and asking f absolution'' — Cabinet Minister Do not expect from me (Whom you have set In this authority) Defence, apology, Excuse or plea, Or even a regret: No sheeted penitent Am I, To stand Candle in hand And cry That I may be forgiven, Absolved or shriven, For what is spilt and spent. 36 All that has happened so Is so. I lay it bare; Admission I make: The wisest of us err, The best plans go awry; Perhaps we blundered sore; But I would have you know No one is more Responsible than I, And of the accountability I take My share — and my full share! II In far Gallipoli Where Achi frowns to the sea, And wild war-fires are set; Stark to the Eastern moon, There lies, Huddled in the last agonies, Beside his shattered gun, A new-slain English boy: And his dead eyes Hint not apologies, Excuses or regret, Neither dismay nor joy; No candles at his head Nor sheet nor shroud has he, 37 And by his blood-soaked bed No shriving words are said. It is a woman's son — The child she bare In England free and fair: Following the English drum Hitherward is he come, So to annul And break Himself for England's sake — He, too, hath taken his share. And taken it in full. Ill Lord of the Mysteries, Who on the shining air Launchest despair, And black, by rose and vine, Spillest the battle-line; This is the Bread, and this The perfumed Wine: No period dost Thou set Unto our dole and fret. Which, being of Thee, are Thine; Yet, if we yield our breath To death, 38 Or keep in strife This fripperied, fardel life, Help each of us to bear His share — and his full share! 39 Killed Lieutenant Keen was "great," and yet He would look over the parapet; And something smacked him in the head, And he lay down as dead as dead. He sluttered down, all proud and grim. And we set to and buried him; All night he lay and took his rest With lumps of Flanders on his breast. All day he lay in Flanders ground And rested, rested, good and sound; But when the dog-star glittered clear He calls, *'By Jove, it's dark down here!'* "Sergeant, ain't I for rounds?" sings he, "And where's the bally Company?" And he was answered, with respect, "Here, sir — all present and correct!" And — sure as I'm a man — at night He comes along the trench, as white 40 And cheerful as the blessed saints, To see if there was "no complaints.'* They cannot quieten that boy's ghost, He'll have no truck with no ''Last Post," They mark him "Killed," but you may swear He's with us, be it foul or fair. He goes before us like young fire, A soldier of his soul's desire; Through the hell-reek that smothers us. He fathers us and mothers us. When we have pushed the German swine Across the pretty river Rhine, Maybe he'll bide where he was spent And lie down happy and content. 41 Dying for Your Country I When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, We had no buttons and no band — We did our murder very plain; There were no heroes, no V.C/s, No glory for the honoured dead — We went and slew our enemies, Or they slew us, and nothing said. II Slaughter was slaughter, gore was gore. And kicks were kicks the same as now, And death was just as sharp and sure. And just as cooling to the brow. We did not fight for pelf or fame. Neither for honour did we strive, Nor for to make Old England's name. But just to keep ourselves alive. 42 Ill It's him or you, ourselves or them — An ugly wild-beast law — and yet It hits us with a gust like flame When we are minded to forget; For all our sweet tarantara, Our "love of right" and "hate of ill," Boil down to the old formula — We must be killed unless we kill. IV So, Johnny, keep your barrel bright, And go where you are told to go, And when you meet, by day or night. Our friend the enemy, lay him low; And you must neither boast nor quake. Though big guns roar and whizz-bangs whizz- Don't die for your dear country's sake, But let the other chap die for his. 43 A Chant of Affection And so you hate us! You Hate England — hate, hate, hate! A bestial brewage, racked Out of the pits and holes Of foulness and deceit, Riots in your unclean veins; You burn, you rage, you choke. You spit and splutter hate For England! ... To the Russ, Battering your Eastern doors, You have a mind to turn The blubbered other cheek; The Gaul — your sweet old friend And crony of your love — For him, dear soul, white flags. Garlands and pretty lures. Doves, promises, desire To load him with the half Of that you filched away: For Belgia, "bleeding hearts," Laments, regrets, "mild rule," Cheap headstones for her sons, 44 And for her daughters You — That they may suage your lusts And, by the fireless hearths You have made desolate, Be snugly brought to bed Of further Attilas And blonde Barabbases — Lieges and *'gun fodder" For the top-heavy Dolt Whom ye call Kaiser and Lord. Yea, holy are your eyes And filled with kindly beams For these and all the world : On Turk and Pole and Boer, Bulgar, American, You smile your panderous smile- But for the EngUsh — Hate! And you will rend our Throat, And you will bite our Heel, And you will stamp us down: You put an oath on bronze (No paper this time — bronze! Which is not easily blown On winds of treachery!) You have made an oath of bronze, An oath no wind may shake. An oath for your sons and their sons One foe and one alone — 45 ENGLAND ! For England hate! And hate and hate and hate! How shall we hate you back We who are England; we Whose bugles round the world Blow to the punctual daw^ns And fail not; whose great ships Traverse the seventy seas And always are at home; Who are too big for hate, Too careless and too fine, Too tempered and too proud — How shall we hate you back? For when you see us whole Our strength is an honest strength And based on what we love; And these be two things we love: Honour, and our fair land — Honour which is the crown And jewel and lamp and light Of them that are not clods; And our fair English land Peopled with forthright men Who make no talk of God, But fear Him in their hearts. And fear nor hate, nor death Nor the King's enemies; — A land of blunt, brave men. And blessed with memories 46 Of old and high renown; Old Captains who beat forth In lofty ships of war, Tawny and tarred and proud, Old Admirals, who sleep Safe In the ancient deeps. And dream for England still: Oh, you shall stamp us down When all the seas are red With the good English blood. And all the beaches white With decent English bones, And when our pleasant fields Are hillocked with carrion flesh That cries and cries to heaven Of coward Englishmen, And the white Yorkshire rose Blushes for shame of us, And her red sister-rose Blanches for shame of us, Then shall you stamp us down, Then shall you suck the blood Out of the English throats, And tack this Isle of ours On to your German wastes! O haters, fools and blind Go home and make dolls* eyes, And silly little clocks. And plaisters for our gout, Wimples and crisping-plns! 47 For now the outraged stars Have seen enough of you, The silver moons are sick That ye still blot the earth; From icy, hidden peaks And far-ofF fastnesses, From chambers of the South And in the unconquerable heart Of England, ware and wake. The tempest gathers up That shall be flails for you. And break you in your place And scatter you like straw; Instead of ** Hate, hate, hate," You shall cry "Doom, doom, doom,'* And you shall wail and mourn. With none to comfort you But sprites o{ murdered babes, And ghosts of women raped, And wraitlis of great slain men. 48 The Riddle Through a glass darkly 1 can see Slaves, in whose blood ran liberty; Creatures of anguish, fear and wrong, Abject of eye, furtive of tongue; Whose joy hath taken wings and flown, Whose strength no longer is their own; Whose high tower toppled to the dust, Whose silk and steel are moth and rust; Whose name is water and shall be A byword and a mockery; Who eat the portion of the thrall, Whose drink is vinegar and gall; Whose flesh doth suflFer whip and rope, Whose children's children may not hope; Upon whose fetters chuckling Fate Hath set her scornful mark ''Too late." 49 And on whose brows that fronted God The leering Beast writes "Ichabod." Read you the riddle: who are these So naked to their enemies — And so possessed of their old phlegm That one shall safely spit on them? I will not tell you who they are; It is enough — They lost the war. 50 Ubi Bene f\Iong the English lanes a budding green, Upon the English orchards pink and white, And over them the rapture and delight 3f April sunshine! Fair and fresh and clean, ^ashen as if in wells of hyaline And very wondrous to the pilgrim sight; A glad, new land of all things soft and bright — 3h, surely here an angel must have been \nd left his blessing! . . . Dead, young son of ours, Who didst so proudly taste the loving-cup. Whose blood but now shone like a living rose Dropped by the Lord upon the Flanders snows, ^Vhat country shall they give you to be yours For this, the England you have given up? SI Cor Cordium He is gone hence. Weep no weak tears for him : You gave us freely what you valued most; It is not loss, for gifts are never lost Unto the giver. Lo, the star-kept, dim Limits where battle fades away, and grim Death halts and hath no power! On that coasi His feet are set among the shining host Who range with cherubim and seraphim. A thousand suns are unregarded dust, A million dawns break and are counted not, And Beauty rlseth up, and she departs Eternally — eternally forgot; But your fair stripling, dead beside his trust, Is safely folded in the Heart of Hearts. S* A Rhyme of Gaffer D- I know the old chap very well, He called on us when I was young — They sang a hymn and tolled a bell, "Friend after friend departs," they sung. He took my father somewhat quick. He took my brother from his play, He took my dog (a dirty trick — Though he's the GafFer, anyway). After — I didn't mind of 'im A-cuttin' up his grisly capers, For years and years, although Fd seem To read about 'im in the papers. When war broke out, I saw the bills. What says, "Your King and Country Needs You,' My 'eart with rule Britannia fills An' whispers, "Go where glory leads you." S3 But though I loved the 'Uns a treat, An* would have 'listed brisk an' 'earty, I always seemed to get cold feet A-thinkin' of that same Old Party. Till — well, at last, it had to be, My girl, she says, "You'll make me proud!" "Wot about 'im ?" says I. Says she, "Sign up, my lad, an' 'im be blowed!" An' so I signed and so I joined, An' learnt my facin's an' my drillin', An' how to wash my ears behind. An' always be alert an' willin'. An' how to do things at the word, An' stamp when 'alted or "attention"-ed. An' all the time I never heard The Old Chap's name so much as mentioned. Our little lot, they say, is "it," And not a bunch to stick at trifles. In fact for 'ficiency an' grit We're next door to the Artists' Rifles. An* yet, my friends, twixt you an' me. Despite the bluff they feed the boys on, The Reg'ment don't like Gaffer D An*, reely, 'ates 'im worse than poison. 54 He is the Major's constant dread, The fly in the Lieutenant's ointment, Even the Colonel, so 'tis said, Will meet him only by appointment. Oh, he's a wash-out, that Old Gent! If 'tweren't for him, so 'elp me never. We'd all of us be well content. To fight for 'arth and 'ome for ever! You should ha' seen 'im t'other day, A-beckonin' us across the trenches — The very corporils knelt to pray. An' look at pictures of their wenches! We did our bit — oh yes, we did. An' he was in his element — He took a toll which can't be hid Until the big new draft is sent. But still I thank my stars, I does, ('Appy am I it should be so) That though he wasn't kind to us He weren't no kinder to the foe. . . You won't get rid of that Old Card, Leastways till you've got rid of sin, — So here's his 'ealth, say I — the Hard Old Chap that spoils the soldierin'; 55 The Chap that mocks at mother's prayers, And loves to widow the young bride; Yet hurteth only whom he spares, And makes the rest most satisfied. S6 The Ass The enemy without — and he within! You meet him on the stairs of your high tower All simpers. At his nose he hath a flower, Upon his tongue cheap honey; and his chin Waggeth for ever. If we lose or win — Please don't talk war! The witty luncheon hour, The joyous week-end ! Good souls, who could sour So blithe a spirit, or prick so sleek a skin ? Cheerfullest wight! It is his constant whim To beam on Fate. All that he asks is love, A salad, a glass of wine, music that charms, A book, a friend, and "the blue sky above"- And underneath, the everlasting arms Of them that toil and groan and bleed for him. 57 The Diners " They died contenty* he said. And bent a well-groomed head Sweetly above the soup: *' Ah, splendid lads /" he sighed. ''And . . . (Waiter!) . . . think /—they d\ Content / . . . (the cantaloupe Wasn't quite ripe enough). Real top-hole lads and tough ! — A lesson for those swine ! — (Yes, yes — uncork the wine!) " Top-hole, I tell you ! — (pish, Fm not so keen on fish! — Don't matter — eat it, dear) — Beat us ? Good Lord ! No fear ! — With lads like that about ! (Well well — they call it trout!) Where can you match 'em ? (Oh — Pates of riz de veau I) "All heroes ! — (Gad — that's Jones — Wolfing his damned grilled bones — S8 Pardon — but really — well — Grilled bones for dinner! . . . 'Pell-Mell'? No, darling, let us go And see the other show) — Our chaps are simply *it* I — (Not just the weeniest bit? The waiting here's absurd : When will they bring the bird ?) " They died content ! . . (Don't look — There's Mumble and the duke And Mrs. M. — Of course She does laugh like a horse!) — They died like gentle7nen ! (Chicken ? No — ancient hen ! — But still the salad's good) — My God — the British blood ! ** You very nearly kissed That fearful Casualty List ? — Ah, precious, yoiive a heart ! — (What excellent strawberry tart!) — Yes, Haigs O.K., you bet He'll smother 'em — and yet There must be sacrifice ! — (I shouldn't risk the ice!) " (Coffee for two — no cream !) It all seems like a dream: Still, we shall win right through. As we were bound to do. . , , 59 They died content ! — (Why, sure!- Did'Ums want its liqueur ? . . And, waiter, — that cigar! And, waiter — call the car! — And bring the blanky bill! — These 'neutrals' make me ill!)" do A Rhyme of Right or Wrong "Though the race be to the swift And the battle to the strong History must one day sift What is right from what is wrong. ' History alone can show Warring nations their true fame, And on each of them bestow Proper shares of praise and blame. "We are right? Let's hope we are: But how dreadful it would be If we chanced to win the war And no praise from History! "Therefore clasp Herr Murderer's fist, Offer terms to Lustundloot, — Is he not a Socialist? And an expert with the flute? 6i ** Keeping on is wrong indeed — Germans feel and love and pray: If you prick them don't they bleed Like the Hebrew in the play?'* Thus the babblers more or less Platitudinously present To the public consciousness An uplifting argument. . . . History! you've always burned For sheer justice just too late; But so far as we're concerned Put this on your little slate: — Right or wrong we did not sheathe Britain's sword till the last Hun Carried back his loosened teeth To his own place in the sun. Right or wrong we did not rest Till we'd laid that sovereign herb Comfort, on the outraged breast Of the Belgian and the Serb. Right or wrong we watched with France From the Alps unto the sea, Through the night of black mischance Till the dawn of victory. 62 Right or wrong we smashed the yoke Greed had forged for the world's neck; Right or wrong we dealt the stroke Which brought Kaiserdom to wreck. Right or wrong we never hid Our behef that wars would cease; Right or wrong we made a bid For the thousand years of peace. Right or wrong for this we gave Our young sons to death and doom, — Every garden had its grave, Every field a hecatomb. Right or wrong the German mob Got their ultimate meal of grit; (Right or wrong we took the job, Right or wrong we finished it.) Right or wrong our faith was true Though the end seemed "not in sight'*; Right or wrong we muddled through And were thankful — wrong or right. 63 ( July 1, 1916 We were unprepared, We were most unwise; We have been like that For centuries — But we've taught ourselves a thing or tw< And we're muddling through. Twenty-three months! Twenty-three Men! Oh, the muddle And muddle again! — One can't deny it, because it's true — But we're muddling through. Shells and soldiers, Piles and files; — The roar goes up On seventy miles: We know now what we always knew- We shall muddle through! 64 Oh, Banner of ours That shines in the wars, Oh, excellent bars Red, white, and blue, With glory in every fold of you- We shall muddle through! 65 To the Kaiser With a Child's Drum He was three years old, a mirthful, tumbling wight, To see your cohorts pass, he stood at stare. Unwitting, but pleased; and out of his delight He laughed you forth a Five VAngleterre. Boiled the insulted blood in the high veins Of the most puissant and invincible (Whose fathers, spat upon, remarked "It rains!") Your soldier fired — rebellious innocence fell. Wherefore we send you. Conqueror, a child's drum, And you shall beat upon it as you go Bloodily stalking to your crazy doom — The plaything of your murdered baby foe. 66 Joffre There's a solid lump of War — Name o* Joffre, Lives on a swift motor-car. General Joffre; Plays with Death at hide and seek- In and out the Battle's reek — Kisses heroes twice a week — Father Joffre! Up at dawn to see his friends — Healthy Joffre! Has no patience with week-ends, Have yer, Joffre? ''Get the work done — then let's dine!" Likes his omelette and his wine, Goes to bed at half-past nine — Vigorous Joffre! Nibble, nibble all the day"— (Patient Joffre!) 67 Makes the Kaiser kneel and pray, Don't it, JofFrt? "Nibble, nibble all the night*'— Music for the pale moonlight, Worries 'em and bleeds 'em white; Saigner JofFre! Oh, he's keen on German dead. Careful JofFre, "Every one of 'em," he's said (Monsieur JofFre), "Helps to fatten the warm, brown Soil that still is France's own — Dig 'em in and stamp 'em down!" Farmer JofFre! He don't hurry up the Fates, Doesn't JofFre, He just waits and waits and waits — Watchful JofFre! Then he pounces — un, deux — bifF! Takes 'em right in the midrifF, "Kamerad — par grace!" they snifF. " 1" says JofFre! All the time he's fighting Bosche, Steadfast JofFre! In his four-three mackintosh, Thrifty JofFre! 68 Want to see the German thief Use a pocket-handkerchief? Holler at him, brisk and brief, "JofFre,JofFre,Joffre!" T'other day, he thought he'd go (Thinks, does JofFre!) To the seaside for a blow, Cheerful Joffre! Bulgars at the Serbian throat, Greece behaving like the goat — "Put me on the Channel boat," Murmurs JofFre! And he wanders down Whitehall, Simple JofFre! For to pay his morning call. Civil JofFre! Cabinet Ministers in pairs, Hearing footsteps on the stairs. Jumped up from their easy chairs — "Lord, it's JofFre!" What he told 'em — well, you know (Whisper JofFre!) Must be printed so — and — so, (Censor — JofFre !) But on this and this and that. You may bet your Sunday hat, They had quite a useful chat, Friendly JofFre! 69 So here's to Joffre Bahadur, Soldier JofFre! May he make a hash of "Fader," Frenchman JofFre! Mr. Kipling, I am sure, Will be pleased for us to score, On the old slate, two names more — "France" and *7ofFre"! 70 Excuses I I have a widow'd mother, to whom I cleave With a devouring passion. My sole care And joy she is. ''What money I can spare* Is hers — when she can get it. If I leave Upon your urgent errand she will grieve (Poor soul), and find no comfort anywhere- Beauty draws some men by a single hair; But me— Fm all for mother, please believe. A boy's best friend's his mother without a doubt And a most excellent mother have I got: Tis true, the other day, she said, "You go — ril struggle through!" I murmured, "Certainly not!"— Sharp like, and firm. . . . Dear heart, she'll never know How much I've loved her— since the war broke out! 71 II In me behold the trusty stay and prop Of Mr. Cheesemonger. He calls me Sam; I mix his eggs and cut his ''splendid" ham, And clean his windows and sweep up his shop. And drive his pony till it's fit to drop, And help his customers into the tram — Fm indispensable, I am, I am, And if I went the business would go flop. Kind Mr. C. remarks "A pretty thing To want my right-hand man — and like their che Now, who comes first, your Country and your Kir Or me.?" Of course, I answered, *'You do, sir!" He raised my screw to eighteen bob a week And claims exemption for a "manager." Ill And I — ah, mine's a bitter case indeed; You call me slacker, coward, what you will — I have a patent duty to fulfil By my white soul whose promptings I must heed: It's not my fault if heroes choose to bleed. Blood I abhor, and no man's blood I'll spill, My conscience simpl}^ will not let me kill — The Sixth Commandment's plain for all to read. 72 Clearly, who fights is either wicked or mad. And rage and malice are the spawn of hell; No quarrel have I with Germans or with Turks Vm single — yes! Profession? I used to sell Cats' meat before the war; but times being bad I've taken a job at a munition works. 73 It *' England has an Achilles' heel.'' — HiNDENBURG Out of iron and blood And flame of the nether pit, And fifty sorts of mud, They fashioned the great god It. And as he frowned on high They bade him speak them luck, And shouted solidly — "Hoch, hoch! Hoch, hozh— Von Kluck r But dumb and sour and grim, He eyed them hant en has: They cried, "Let*s flatter him — Moltke ! hurrah, hurrah!'* Yet, heavy and dull as lead, No sign might he evince, "We'll tickle him up!" they said — "Heil, heil! Heil, ht\\—Kronprinz r 74 Deafer than any stone, Dumber than any stock, Frowned he. They yelled, "Our own Von FalkenhayUy hoch, hoch!" Yea, he sat there like sin Knowing nor sense nor wit, Till the dry throat of Berlin Gasped "HiNDENBURG IS It'/' Then did It speak. Like steel His words — "Beware the Foe For yo^Lr Achilles' heel Is her Achilles* toe!" 75 1912 [First published in 1910] O Fair and Fair and Fierce, Tigress mother of ours, Beautiful-browed, deep-thewed Passionate mother of ours. Hearken ! The drums of doom Are beaten at the gate. And it is meet that THOU, Whose breasts are ice and steel, Whose heart is all a fire, Should show us frightened eyes. And lips becomingly blenched; So say the very wise. For when the thrones were made Thine, the throne of the thrones. Was set in the yeasty seas: Built and bastioned and braced, A tower of brass, a rock. An adamant pyramid, A strength unshakable; 76 And to thy hands were given Power and dominion Wherever water is salt, Wherever a shipboy sings, Wherever ships may ride; So that the seas of the world, Though they be seventy times seven. Are EngHsh seas, and thine; Whether it be the harsh And bitter seas of the north. Flurried by little winds, And pushed by piping gales Against the winking stars; Or the still blue middle seas; Or where the daffodil moon Slips down an amethyst sky To walk with silver feet On the Southern, soft lagoons. It is the English sea. . . . Who is this that waits By the weary Baltic shore. By the kneeling Baltic shore. With shrouded arm and hand, And a hand whereon there gleams A glove of impudent mail? Behind him stretch afar The pleasant, placid spas. Fattened with English aches; And the four-three factories. n And the reek of the dumper*s fires, And the pretty river Rhine (Which owes so much to Cooks), And rows, and rows, and rows Of flat-head soldier men. And the works of Schichau and Krupp, And for a sign in the blue, The tender himmelblau. The good, grey Count's balloons! Do you know this singular Lord, This humorous, hearty Prince, Whose cry is ** Peace, Peace, Peace," Abroad, and at home "War, War"; Who preaches through the day With olive twigs in his hair. And rises in the night To fan the secret forge; Who says, "Why should we fight? Prithee, why should we fight? What cause have we to fight ? Are we not friends, please God, And CUSTOMERS? . . . My glass Is raised to you and Peace Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!" Who says again, "My arms Must flourish on the seas, My arms and mine alone If you wish a place in the sun; As for the one in our path, 78 The one whom we all so love. By nineteen hundred and twelve I shall be ready for HER!! I have promised you your Day — Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!" It is nineteen hundred and ten And the Seas are English seas. They will be English seas Till they shall give up Drake And the thousand English hearts Which have made rich the depths: Until they shall be rolled Together like a scroll They shall be English seas. We sleep sound in our beds; We fear no fist of mail; We fear no withered arm; We are not afraid of Krupp Nor yet of Blohm and Voss. We wish you the Devil's joy Of all you have hidden and built; It is nineteen hundred and ten. We have simple words for you: In the English history books There is Eighteen Hundred and Five; We say to you when you pray. Thank Heaven if we do not write In the English history books With beautiful German blood Nineteen Hundred and Twelve. 79 Towards the Reckoning With tongue of oil and breath of myrrh They bid us turn the other cheek, And mark the blessing for the meek, The mourner and the peacemaker. They counsel, **Love your enemies; Do good to them who bear you hate; Agree thou quickly!" and they prate Of being, with the great wisdom, wise. "Of Eye for Eye and Tooth for Tooth None righteously exacts the debt; It is forbidden!'' they say — and yet They publish only half the truth. And by their speech the grinning Host Which hath Blasphemed takes lease to live. Harden our hearts, lest we forgive The Sin against the Holy Ghost! 80 Verdun "One shall be taken and the other left" — 'Tis so with men, and even so with forts; One falls, another stands — the strong cohorts Beat vainly on it in rage of divers sorts — One shall be taken and the other left. One shall be taken and the other left — Behold the Bride that singeth through the gloom, And waiteth still with scorn the German groom, And fears not to be given away by Doom! — One shall be taken and the other left. One shall be taken and the other left — O eyes of Hell and fronts of bloody brass, France, by her Lilies, sweareth ye may not pass Unto her — though the bar were brittlest glass! — One shall be taken and the other left. 8i Ireland I Our right — and your old wrongs. With men's and angels' tongues We did discourse. Alas — The tinkling cymbal and the sounding brass! We "ruled." You mourned and planned. We had gifts to understand All knowledge, all dreams, all star-sad mystery; Mountains we moved, while you made prophecy. We Doubted not. Your Eyes Were set on Paradise. Yet always, and most grievously, Both of us missed the "greatest" of "these three.' 82 II Your fair dead — our fair dead. Now, by each fallen head And each rebuking wraith, Swear we another Faith. Your night of tears — our night. But, by the unquenchable Light Toward which, blindly, we grope. Behold, another Hope! Our agony — and yours. Yea, by the Passionate Hours And the Exceeding Bitter Cry, Do we still lack . . . the Charity! 83 // [With apologies to Mr. Kipling] If you can lend your money to McKenna, And keep on lending all you have to spare; If you believe that "simple things like senna Are just as good as the best Brighton air"; If you can wrastle six days in the City, Running the show short-handed, or alone. And never have your moments of self-pity And never once say "Bless the telephone!" If you can face the rain on homeward buses, To save the cost of the old taxi ride. And wonder why young people make such fusses When "24V' are few and "full inside"; If you can don your country coat and breeches And dine in state off yesterday's cold joint, And read the missus Mr. Asquith's speeches And reason with her till she sees the point; 84 If you survey "the drama as it passes," Without a thought of this or that man's guile; If you deny that Ministers are asses, And pay the taxes with a friendly smile; If you can write before your son's name, "Private,' And never wish he wore a nice red tab; If on mature reflection, you arrive at The view that life in war-time isnt drab; If you can hear without a secret quailing That there were losses in last night's advance; If you can meet the postman without paling, And open telegrams with nonchalance; If you can read the letter from the Major, That puts a "finis" to your earthly joy, And stand up straight — and stiff-lipped — you may wager That, on the whole, you are a Man, old boy! 8s Wounded Back again! Back again! Out o' blood and mud andi rain; Out o' gun-sound . . . God a'mighty! Out o' Blazes and home to " Blighty" ! — Broke right up and full o* pain, But back again — back again! Back again! Back again! By an extry special train With the Red Cross on the panels — Snuggled in me nice new flannels — Like the blinkin* King o' Spain — Back again! Back again! Back again! Back again! Clapham Junction plain a; plain! — Just as grimy, just as gloomy. Just as home-like, and as roomy — Dead on time — we can't complain — Back again! Back again! Back again! Back again! Waterloo and rows o* men Down the platform standing readv 86 "or to lift us quick and steady — Curses smiling — "How's the pain?" Back again ! Back again ! Back again ! Back again ! London Town and home again- ever knew how much they loved us, — n the ambulance they've shoved us — Nearly numbered with the slain But back again — back again! 87 Come Young Lads First Sergeant went a-walking Wi' ribbons in his cap, "Ho-ho," says he, "His Majesty Wants just another chap. An' as 'tis plain, for married men He no more cares a rap. Come young lads first!" Wherefore the bairn I suckled Goes now in khaki drest; So young is he, that he med be Still cosy from my breast; But he marches with his chin up An' his chest out, like the rest, Come young lads first! Old Squire says, "Oh yes, oh yes, 'Twill do him worlds of good"; An' parson says that losing bairns If rightly understood Is blessed, an' 'tis sweet, he says, For th' King to shed your blood — Come young lads first! 88 "Abram," he says, "gave Isaac, As writ in Holy Word, An' Mary broke the precious box At the feet of our dear Lord; So you must give your boy," he says, "To carry England's sword. Come young lads first!" They speak you fair do gentlemen, But not more fair or free Than my young son, who's just the one His father used to be; And when I said he med get killed He angers up at me, "Come young lads first!" For he's no lad that hides his mind An' he's no lad that feigns; An' while he spoke my heart came back As easy of its pains As when his father courted me Along the scented lanes — Come young lads first! A woman has her love (it is Her glory and her crown) Which many waters cannot quench An' the great floods cannot drown; But men have that which passes love When they hear the bugles blown — Come young lads first! 89 An' so the bairn I suckled Goes now in khaki drest, So young is he, that he med be Still cosy from my breast; An' he marches with his chin up An' his chest out, like the rest — Come young lads first! 90 The Rhyme of the Beast Lo, the Beast that rioteth, Sick with hate and coveting — To the sons of men he saith, I will show you a new thing. This, the Earth, which was the Lord's, Prodigal of rose and vine, I will desolate with swords Till it own that it is mine. Every brow must bear my brand, Every wrist must wear my steel, Every throat be for my hand, Every neck be for my heel. I will thrust into your souls Unnamed terrors and despairs — Populate the air with ghouls And the sea with murderers. 91 While I prove that war is war, Saints shall mourn and angels weep, Star commiserate with star. Deep cry out to shuddering deep; Tigers marvel in their lust At the tale of blood and pain, Pity move the insensate dust And the very stones complain. I will twist the tongue of Truth Till her speech be nought but lies, I will kill the faith of Youth, And the hope in Age's eyes. Not the altar, nor the tomb, Nor the Sufferer on the Tree, Nor the babe within the womb Shall be sacred unto me. I will rend and rage and cog, Rob and ravish till I die; I will be the Supreme Hog And the world shall be my sty. 92 Gaudeamus ''Our whole High Seas Fleet, without any aid from coast batteries, has delivered a victorious blow against the most powerful navy in the world. . . . The great sea fight so eagerly expected on both sides in the North Sea for twenty \ two months has been fought out.''— Tagebl ATT This is your "victory"! We who brook no defeat. On any sea, Being of the old sea-mind, Smile the sea-smile, and find Our very losses sweet. Of your "victorious blow" We give you the full joy: Be glad! We know Our strengths majestical- Our every admiral, Our every sailor boy. 93 Yet is it not "fought out": Lick you your wounds, good friends. And shout and shout — You will not shake Nelson, or Hood, or Drake, Or the appointed ends. 94 For Whom It May Concern Ye know that Freedom from her height Laughs on the world In Fate's despite: Here Is her comfort set: — England is England yet. Ye know that all the fronts of War Shine with the effulgent English star; Ye know whose is the blood That baffled and withstood Old tyrants; and full well ye know There never can be shock or blow To hurt more than a reed The panoply of your breed. How shall you in such armour girt Palter behind a woman's skirt, Or that man's pledge, or this Man's broken promises? 95 While the slipped flower of the race Comports him in the veteran's plaa His shroud (oh, Fearlessness!) Worn like a wedding dress. You will not grieve those emulous dead Boy heritors of goodlihead, Who haply loved their lives Much as you love your wives. 96 Slain Duke et decorum est pro patria mori You who are still and white And cold like stone; For whom the unfailing light Is spent and done; For whom no more the breath Of dawn, nor evenfall Nor Spring, nor love, nor death Matter at all; Who were so strong and young And brave and wise, And on the dark are flung With darkened eyes; Who roystered and caroused But yesterday. And now are dumbly housed In stranger clay; 97 Who valiantly led, Who followed valiantly, Who knew no touch of dread Of that which was to be; Children that were as nought Ere ye were tried, How have ye dared and fought, Triumphed and died! Yea, it is very sweet And decorous The omnipotent Shade to meet And flatter thus. THE END 98 U....L, .^ THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y. % ■0^ a. < % &■ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide ^(- Treatment Date: ^ \v ^ ^ MAY o> <^^ '1^^£^- PreservationTechnologies %^ ^^ *>^^EI^^ A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION "^^"^ ^ <^^^-TT^^ 111 Thomson Park Drive 007 676 012 3