Part 3

"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."

. . . . .

"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad, And you're looking so fit and bright." "I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad, But I feel that I'm doing right." "God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad, You're all of my life, you know." "Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, And I'm awfully proud to go."

. . . . .

"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad? I watch for the post each day; And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, And it's months since you went away. And I've had the fire in the parlour lit, And I'm keeping it burning bright Till my boy comes home; and here I sit Into the quiet night."

. . . . .

"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad? No letter again to-day. Why did the postman look so sad, And sigh as he turned away? I hear them tell that we've gained new ground, But a terrible price we've paid: God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; But oh I'm afraid, afraid."

. . . . .

"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad: You'll never come back again: _(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)_ For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, And you proved in the cruel test Of the screaming shell and the battle hell That my boy was one of the best.

"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad, In the gleam of the evening star, In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child, In all sweet things that are. And you'll never die, my wonderful boy, While life is noble and true; For all our beauty and hope and joy We will owe to our lads like you."

A Song of the Sandbags

No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh (The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss). And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche, I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us. I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me; And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight; And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree, We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.

A-standin' up to the sandbags It's funny the thoughts wot come; Starin' into the darkness, 'Earin' the bullets 'um; _(ZING! ZIP! PING! RIP! 'ARK 'OW THE BULLETS 'UM!)_ A-leanin' against the sandbags Wiv me rifle under me ear, Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go Than I used to 'ave in a year.

I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for? 'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree, If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war. If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud; If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell; If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood: By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell.

Shiverin' up to the sandbags, With a hicicle 'stead of a spine, Don't it seem funny the things you think 'Ere in the firin' line: _(WHEE! WHUT! ZIZ! ZUT! LORD! 'OW THE BULLETS WHINE!)_ Hunkerin' down when a star-shell Cracks in a sputter of light, You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags Most any old time o' night.

They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade, Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed; But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made, Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned! There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight: That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name; And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . . But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same.

Starin' over the sandbags, Sick of the 'ole damn thing; Firin' to keep meself awake, 'Earin' the bullets sing. _(HISS! TWANG! TSING! PANG! SAUCY THE BULLETS SING.)_ Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags Of a day when war will cease, When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me Will clink our mugs in fraternity, And the Brotherhood of Labour will be The Brotherhood of Peace.

On the Wire

O God, take the sun from the sky! It's burning me, scorching me up. God, can't You hear my cry? 'Water! A poor, little cup!' It's laughing, the cursed sun! See how it swells and swells Fierce as a hundred hells! God, will it never have done? It's searing the flesh on my bones; It's beating with hammers red My eyeballs into my head; It's parching my very moans. See! It's the size of the sky, And the sky is a torrent of fire, Foaming on me as I lie Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .

Of the thousands that wheeze and hum Heedlessly over my head, Why can't a bullet come, Pierce to my brain instead, Blacken forever my brain, Finish forever my pain? Here in the hellish glare Why must I suffer so? Is it God doesn't care? Is it God doesn't know? Oh, to be killed outright, Clean in the clash of the fight! That is a golden death, That is a boon; but this . . . Drawing an anguished breath Under a hot abyss, Under a stooping sky Of seething, sulphurous fire, Scorching me up as I lie Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .

Hasten, O God, Thy night! Hide from my eyes the sight Of the body I stare and see Shattered so hideously. I can't believe that it's mine. My body was white and sweet, Flawless and fair and fine, Shapely from head to feet; Oh no, I can never be The thing of horror I see Under the rifle fire, Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . .

Of night and of death I dream; Night that will bring me peace, Coolness and starry gleam, Stillness and death's release: Ages and ages have passed,-- Lo! it is night at last. Night! but the guns roar out. Night! but the hosts attack. Red and yellow and black Geysers of doom upspout. Silver and green and red Star-shells hover and spread. Yonder off to the right Fiercely kindles the fight; Roaring near and more near, Thundering now in my ear; Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark! Someone moans in the dark. I hear, but I cannot see, I hear as the rest retire, Someone is caught like me, Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . .

Again the shuddering dawn, Weird and wicked and wan; Again, and I've not yet gone. The man whom I heard is dead. Now I can understand: A bullet hole in his head, A pistol gripped in his hand. Well, he knew what to do,-- Yes, and now I know too. . . .

Hark the resentful guns! Oh, how thankful am I To think my beloved ones Will never know how I die! I've suffered more than my share; I'm shattered beyond repair; I've fought like a man the fight, And now I demand the right (God! how his fingers cling!) To do without shame this thing. Good! there's a bullet still; Now I'm ready to fire; Blame me, God, if You will, Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .

Bill's Grave

I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill; I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand; 'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill, To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and.

For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best; We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes; Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West, So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums.

And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound, And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer, If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere.

But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know. 'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore; I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago; But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war.

It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth (Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit); I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth; But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit.

I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn. Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three. Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? _JIM!_ And as sure as I'm born 'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me.

Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while, Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?" And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile: "She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay."

So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck, And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim, When I makes me way to the boneyard, and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck, For wot do I see? _BILL'S GRAVE-MOUND STREWN WITH THE FLOWERS OF JIM._

Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad; And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?" Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees the blossoms of Jim and me?

Jean Desprez

Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance, Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame; Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.

With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land, And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss; The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.

"Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said. "Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead. Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay." They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men, And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten; Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why, Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry; Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood. A moment only. . . . _READY! FIRE!_ They weltered in their blood.

But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries, Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes; A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh, He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die." He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . . A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.

They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame. With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came. A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye; He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie. "Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried; "Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."

With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there, And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare; "Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him, And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim; And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.

But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by, Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry: "Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ." It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside; It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.

A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away. The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: "Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might. Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare; Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame."

They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. "Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die." The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: "Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said. "Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; And I will murmur: _VIVE LA FRANCE!_ and bless you ere I die."

Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now! The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this: This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game. "Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give; A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."

They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face; They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . . "Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat. "Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said. Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . _THE PRUSSIAN MAJOR DEAD!_

Going Home

I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty--ain't I glad to 'ave the chance! I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France; I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance, For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.

I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay? I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.

'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front! I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt; But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt, To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'.

I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'.

I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un; I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun; But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done, And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'.

Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine: Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'.

Cocotte

When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; And that was I; oh, it's seven years now (Some water's run down the Seine since then), And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, And I've almost taken the measure of men.

Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, Artist and poet, and almost a boy. And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, And him I adored with a wonderful joy. If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, How we'd have laughed in a garret gay! But he was rich, and in radiant plenty We lived in a villa at Viroflay.

Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me; Then came the call, and he went away; All that he had in the world he left me, With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay. Then came the news and the tragic story: My hero, my splendid lover was dead, Sword in hand on the field of glory, And he died with my name on his lips, they said.

So here am I in my widow's mourning, The weeds I've really no right to wear; And women fix me with eyes of scorning, Call me "cocotte", but I do not care. And men look at me with eyes that borrow The brightness of love, but I turn away; Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, In my little villa at Viroflay.

And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity', And they say that pity from love's not far; Let me tell you all: last week in the city I took the metro at Saint Lazare; And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, And when there entered at Chateaudun Two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing, I eagerly gave my seat to one.

You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches, But sadder a sight you will rarely find; One had a leg off and walked on crutches, The other, a bit of a boy, was blind. And they both sat down, and the lad was trying To grope his way as a blind man tries; And half of the women around were crying, And some of the men had tears in their eyes.

How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging Just like a child to his crippled chum. But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing Came to my heart for a year so dumb, Then I knew that at three-and-twenty There is wonderful work to be done, Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, Peace and light and love to be won.

Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given To one who will live in the dark alway! To love and to serve--'twould make life Heaven Here in my villa at Viroflay. So I left my 'poilus': and now you wonder Why to-day I am so elate. . . . Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate.

My Bay'nit

When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it, So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war. For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, 'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly Part of me outfit every time.

Left, right, Hans and Fritz! Goose step, keep up yer mits! Oh my, Ain't it a shyme! Part of me outfit every time.

At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; I've used it to open a bully beef can; For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; For any old thing but for stickin' a man. 'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you! Part of me outfit every time.

Lor, yus; _DON'T_ they look glad? Right O! 'Owl Kamerad! Oh my, always the syme! Part of me outfit every time.

I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; I'm fairly down-'earted--'ow _CAN_ yer explain it? I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; And I uses me bay'nit--to slit their suspenders-- Part of me outfit every time.

Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag! 'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag! Oh my, ain't it a gyme! Part of me outfit every time.

Carry On!