On Patrol Part 3

Then he gathered up his papers, and was pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, When a heavy high explosive sent him sailing in the air.

The Chairman beat his hammer on the table all the while, Yelling oaths and calling "Order" in a Democratic style.

But the Delegates were started on the question of the War, (So as not to waste the speeches that they'd written out before).

And the Council of Democracy--a thousand fluent tongues-- Let the Germans have it hearty from its Democratic lungs.

Through the bursting of the shrapnel they were constant to the end,-- Kept referring to each other as "My honourable friend."

And in groups of ten and twenty they were blasted into s.p.a.ce By the disrespectful cannon of an Autocratic race, Till the gathering had dwindled to an incoherent few, Who were still explaining volubly what England ought to do, When the cannon ceased abruptly and they heard the Germans cheer, And a sergeant entered roaring, "Himmel, Ach! was Schmutz ist hier!

Mask your faces, pig-dogs, quickly--all the room is full of gas.

Vorwarts, Carl der Kindermorder--use your bayonet, Saxon a.s.s!"

Faithful to the last, the Chairman, spying strangers all around, Told them they were out of order; hardly seemed to touch the ground.

Told them of his best intentions, how with love of them he burned, Shouted as the bayonet caught him, "Ow! the Council is adjourned!"

RELEASED

RELEASED.

We are drifting back from the End of h.e.l.l to the home we long for so,-- Back from the land of fear and hate that jeers at wounded men; Maimed and crippled are we to-day, but free from curse or blow-- That we knew too well in the land of Cain, the guarded prisoners' den.

We drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago, And there we wait in the Truce of G.o.d for the hand of Death to fall, Waiting aside in hovel or hall--where only neighbours know-- The broken men that the War has left to shun the gaze of all.

Is it nothing to you that pa.s.s us by--hurrying on your way, Whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a German song?

Only but for the Grace of G.o.d you might be where we lay-- With festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the b.u.t.t of a laughing throng.

Peace and Rest? The peace will come when G.o.d shall stay His hand, And change the heart of the German race that mocks at wounded men.

The rest you seek? What need of that? you fight for a Christian land, And all Eternity waits for you--what need of rest till then?

We are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen l.u.s.t, But the sword we dropped when the darkness came is yours to handle yet.

If you sheathe the sword for a greed of gold or suffer the steel to rust, The curse of the captive men be yours--the day when you forget--!

REGULUS

REGULUS.

(Written after reading the story of that name in 'A Diversity of Creatures' by Kipling.)

Out to the wharf where the long s.h.i.+p lay with her beak to the open sea, He went by the way of the merchantmen that trade to the ports of Spain; Clamouring folk beside him ran with sorrowing voice or wailing plea: "Hero--Pride of the Roman State! Turn again at the Harbour-Gate, Back and away from Tyrian hate with us to Rome again."

Out on the wharf he walked from those--that wailed and wept to see him go; And hand in his she walked with him--her royal head on high.

And the crowd was still as she turned and spoke--her hand in his and her eyes aglow: "Here where the tide and Tiber foam, I turn from you to an empty home.

But alone of women of wailing Rome I have no tears to dry;

"Pa.s.s to the sea and the Death beyond to the home of the G.o.ds you left for Earth; Of all the women of Rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine.

A G.o.d, the man that leaves me now--but ah! a lover that thought me worth-- The whispered word of a husband true--I thank the G.o.ds that I hold from you The right that fair Eurydice knew--the love of a man Divine."

A NORTH SEA NOTE

A NORTH SEA NOTE.

The wind that whispered softly over Kiel across the Bay, Died away as the dark closed down, Till the Dockyard glare showed the ending of the day In the Fortress-Town.

In the silence of the night as the big s.h.i.+ps swung To the buoys as the flood-tide made, Came a clamour from the wind like a s.h.i.+eld that is rung By a foemen's blade.

Far above the masts where the wireless showed, Traced out against a star-lit sky, A voice called down from the Whist-hound's road Where the clouds went by--

Listen down below--In the High Sea Fleet, For a signal that was shouted up to me By the sailors that I left on the old, old beat, Far out in the cold North Sea.

They shouted up to me as the gla.s.s went down, And they ducked to the North-West spray, "Will you take a message to the Fortress-Town, And the Fleet that is lying in the Bay?

"Say that we are waiting in the waters of the North, And we'll wait till the seas run dry-- Or the High Sea Fleet from the Bight comes forth, And the twelve-inch sh.e.l.ls go by.

"We have waited very long, but we haven't any doubt They are longing for the day we'll meet.

But tell 'em as you pa.s.s that the sooner they are out, All the better for the English Fleet.

"For when we see 'em sinking--(they'll be fighting to the last, And for those that are lost we'll grieve,) We will cheer for a signal at the Flags.h.i.+p's mast-- On arrival at the Base--Long Leave!"

SOMETHING WRONG

SOMETHING WRONG.

"The German Fleet is coming,"

The Sunday papers say, "And the sh.e.l.l will soon be humming When they fix upon the Day."

All the Sunday experts write, Working very late at night-- "They are coming--they'll be on you any day."