Rhymes of a Red Cross Man Part 5

So stand up, son; look gritty, And just 'um a lively ditty, And only be afraid to be afraid; Just 'old yer rifle steady, And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, For that's the way good soldier-men is made.

And if you 'as to die, As it sometimes 'appens, why, Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; A-doin' of yer bit, And so--to 'ell with it, There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk.

Our Hero

"Flowers, only flowers--bring me dainty posies, Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed.

Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing; Soft into his tired eyes came a little light; Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; There amid the flowers waited he the night.

"I would have you raise me; I can see the West then: I would see the sun set once before I go."

So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow.

So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling, Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame, Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling; So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came.

"Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing; There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky.

How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging: Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die.

I am horror-haunted from the h.e.l.l they found me; I am battle-broken, all I want is rest.

Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me, And a kind lark singing in the golden West.

"Flowers, song and suns.h.i.+ne, just one thing is wanting, Just the happy laughter of a little child."

So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting; Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled.

"In the golden peace-time you will tell the story How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours... .

G.o.d bless little children!" So he pa.s.sed to glory, So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs.

My Mate

I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots, And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.

(Look out there, lad! That sniper--'e's a dysey when 'e shoots; 'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.) Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead, To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red, Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot--but it's blood.

And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.

'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals, And even there we 'ad no disagree.

For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best, I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest, I even stood G.o.d-farther to the kid.

So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?"

"Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im.

'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go, ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim).

Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell, But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread.

We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle, And ... that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.

Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took?

I've only got meself, 'e stands for three.

I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook; 'E always _was_ a better man than me.

'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark, And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark, When ... that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.

'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die.

'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud.

Them corpsy-lookin' star-sh.e.l.ls kept a-streamin' in the sky, And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud.

And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead, And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand: The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and _ZIP!_ like that--'e's dead, Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.

There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun, But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate.

You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate.

It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim; Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid, Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im, To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.

Milking Time

There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, And a score of larks (G.o.d bless 'em) ... but it's all pain, pain.

For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; And the bits o' sh.e.l.ls are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.

Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here; And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.

And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.

Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.

And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.

So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be.

And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed?

And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying That Yvonne is long delaying ... _G.o.d! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!_

A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.

Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time... .

(English voice, months later):-- "_OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME._"

Young Fellow My Lad

"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, On this glittering morn of May?"

"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; They're looking for men, they say."

"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad; You aren't obliged to go."

"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad, And ever so strong, you know."