CHAPTER XII

THE FAR-FLUNG BATTLE LINE

Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set His Britain in blown seas and storming showers, We have a voice with which to pay the debt Of boundless love and reverence and regret To those great men who fought and kept it ours. TENNYSON.

Then each shall take with stubborn grip His rifle as he took his whip, And when the Flag’s unfurled, The clerk shall drop his futile pen To lift his well-loved lance—and then A nation fronts the world! ARTHUR H. ADAMS.

How long will the War last? No two people agree about this, and that however wise, however clever, even however experienced in war they may be. It will be very interesting to see who among our friends have proved right; those who say it will be over soon, or those others who believe it may last years.

There is one thing, however, about which even now we all are agreed. This is that, however long the war may last, Britain and her Allies will never give up the fight until victory is assured.

This great war has been full of surprises, which soldiers and historians will go on discussing for many years to come. Never before, as I have already explained, had such vast masses of men been engaged, never before had battle fronts extended for two hundred, and even three hundred, miles. Not so very long ago, battles never took more than a week or ten days at the most before what soldiers call a “decision” was reached. By “decision,” soldiers mean the complete defeat of one army or the other, so that it is unable to gather itself together and fight again. Even the Battle of the Aisne, which was really a row of battles on a line as long as from London to Carlisle, did not produce a decision of that kind.

Without going into a long explanation which you might not be able to understand, I will try to show how the Battle of the Aisne simply did not end at all, but gradually melted, so to speak, into what we may call the Battle of the Dykes.

One great reason for this singular result, or absence of result, is to be found in the use of aircraft. In the Italian War in Tripoli, and in the Balkan War, aeroplanes had done good service, but this was the first occasion on which they had been employed on a great scale, and the effect of their employment was that neither side could prepare those surprises for the enemy which, in old days, brought about decisive victories.

Napoleon used always to feel by means of scouts for the point at which his enemy was weakest, and against that point he would throw his whole strength. But if Napoleon were alive now, he could not wage war in that way. It is true that his aeroplanes would find out the enemy’s weak point quickly, but the enemy, in his turn, would quickly find out where Napoleon was bringing up fresh men, and would make arrangements to meet them.

This is the sort of thing that happened on the Aisne. Both sides pushed hard, and there was terrible loss of life in numerous battles along the whole front. Villages were taken and retaken, sometimes five or six times over, and on the whole the Allies gained a good deal of ground, and to that extent they defeated the enemy, to whom it was very important to get on quickly.

England and France were not in such a hurry. They could afford to wait because fresh troops were constantly coming up, not only French, but also British, including the magnificent Indian regiments, while the New Army enlisted on the appeal of Lord Kitchener, and the Canadian and the Australian forces, were steadily forming and training, ready to be thrown into the battle. It was quite enough for the Allies simply to hold the Germans, and prevent them from getting to Paris.

There is reason to believe that the German generals, and the Kaiser in particular, determined at this crisis to make a great dash for the coast. If you look at the map you will see that on the Belgian coast, going westwards beyond Ostend, we come to Dunkirk, in France; and then, still further on, to Calais.

Calais has had such a long and romantic history that I cannot help being glad that it has played a part in this great war. The people of Calais are as brave now as they were in the days when the burghers, themselves behaving nobly, gave, as the doing of a noble action nearly always does, the opportunity for the performance of another. Long before the Kaiser set his heart on occupying the nearest port to England, mighty warriors had fought for Calais.

“A thousand knights have reined their steeds To watch this line of sand-hills run, Along the never silent Strait, To Calais glittering in the sun;

To look towards Ardres’ golden field Across the wide aerial plain, Which glows as if the Middle Age Were gorgeous upon earth again.”

The Kaiser wanted to get to Calais for two reasons; one was to encourage the people in Berlin, and the second object was to frighten people here, in England, and to attack the British warships with submarines and destroyers, working from the harbour of Calais.

But a very disagreeable surprise awaited the Germans when they threw themselves towards the coast. This surprise was a number of British and French warships, which shelled them from the sea!

Among the British ships were three very strange-looking craft called monitors. You know well what a monitor means at school, though in some schools they are called prefects. The word exactly means a person who advises, and to whose words attention must be paid.

The Germans certainly had to pay attention to the observations of the three British monitors. These ships, named the Humber, Severn, and Mersey, are like nothing else in the Navy—I can only compare them to floating fortresses. Everything else is sacrificed in building them to having on board as big guns as possible. They are therefore shaped rather like barges, so that they may stand the violent shock when their big guns are all fired. Their speed is not great, and they do not lie deep in the water, so that they can come very near the coast. They are, indeed, meant entirely for coast defence.

These three curious-looking ships were being built in this country for Brazil, and our Admiralty very cleverly took possession of them, of course paying the full price, and very useful they turned out in this Battle of the Dykes.

You can easily understand that the German trenches and other positions had to be mostly, not alongside the coastline, but at right angles to it, so that the monitors could fire their shells lengthwise at the doomed Germans, and so they killed many more than they would otherwise have done.

The country in which the battle was fought is covered with little rivers and canals and dykes, and that is why I have called it the Battle of the Dykes. Parts of it also were flooded, and the German advance became extremely difficult. The British destroyers used to run up the rivers and canals and shell any German position which had escaped the shells of the monitors.

The loss of life was terrible, and not on the German side only. The gallant Belgian Army, though a good deal diminished in numbers, fought magnificently. The Germans, however, continually brought up fresh troops, regardless of the terrible slaughter. And there came a day at the end of October when the Belgian forces found that they were running short of cartridges and shells. It was then that the Germans had their great chance, but for some extraordinary reason they missed it. If they had pressed on, they must have driven their enemy before them and obtained an important success. Instead of that, to the astonishment and delight of the Belgians, they actually fell back, and the golden opportunity was gone.

What a lesson this is in the value of perseverance! The Romans had an excellent proverb, namely, “Opportunity is bald behind”; meaning that when you have once allowed your chance to pass you, there is nothing by which you can catch hold of it to drag it back.

You may have heard the expression “the romance of war.” Even in this awful conflict, where there has been so much that was frightful, certain romantic facts have come to cheer the heart of the nation. Thus, under Rear-Admiral Horace Hood, who commanded the flotilla off the Belgian coast, was Commander Charles Fremantle. They are both descended from heroes of the Napoleonic wars. A Fremantle commanded a line of battleships at Copenhagen and Trafalgar. It was Viscount Hood who, in 1759, destroyed the transports which had been got ready by the daring of the French for the invasion of England. Another Hood served with Nelson in the Mediterranean; this was Samuel Hood. His elder brother, Alexander, commanded the Mars, which fought a duel with the French warship Hercule, and he died of his wounds just as the sword of the French captain was placed in his hands.

The British Army never fought more bravely, more doggedly, and with more splendid cheerfulness than during this fierce, water-logged battle. The enemy, even with his great advantage in numbers and in weight of artillery, was no match for our men. The London Scottish, the first complete unit of our Territorial Army to fight by the side of Regulars, covered themselves with glory by magnificent charges, again and again repeated, at a place called Messines. It was at this time, too, that the Indian troops first came into action, with terrible results for the Germans.

It is difficult to select what to tell you about the Indians, there is so much that is curious and interesting. What struck me personally most was the fact that their batteries of mountain guns and Maxims, according to an observer who saw them in their French camp, are carried on mule-back. Being in Europe has made no difference at all to these wonderful people’s immemorial traditions. Thus, they have brought all their food from India, and they live when on foreign soil exactly as their ancestors lived. There are thousands of goats in the Sikh lines, and very well they bore the long journey from India.

Some of the Indian troops cannot eat any food over which has passed even the shadow of a person belonging to another religious creed. Some of the Indians, also, can only take their food separately, and as it were in secret. But, with the help of the native officers and of white officers who had served in India, such difficulties were easily met, and these gallant Sikhs, Rajputs, Gurkhas, and Pathans suffered no injury to their religious faith, while at the same time they fought shoulder to shoulder with their white comrades in defence of the British Empire.

It would be a great mistake to suppose that the enemy was content only to fight in the cockpit of Europe. The far-flung battle line reached at last from Belgium to Switzerland, something like three hundred miles, and all along there was constant fighting. The struggle swayed backwards and forwards—indeed, for weeks it seemed like a joust between two determined wrestlers, each of whom, if he gave way an inch one day, got back an inch the next.

Particularly violent was the struggle round and for Arras. This quaint town has been described as the most picturesque in Northern Europe. This was partly owing to the fact that it still retained great traces of the old Spanish occupation. One square in Arras looked as if it had been lifted bodily out of Spain. Like so many north of France and Belgian towns, it also had a singularly beautiful town hall and belfry. Alas! all this beauty, including the little Spanish square, was bombarded and destroyed. But, sad as was the fate of Arras, it was shared by many other historic towns.

All along the battle line deeds of valour, of daring, and of quiet, unostentatious heroism were daily performed. Many of our soldiers and airmen earned not only the Legion of Honour, but the Médaille Militaire, which is only awarded for deeds of exceptional daring performed on active service.

Private F. W. Dodson, of Meadowwell, North Shields, serving with the 2nd Coldstream Guards, was recommended for the V.C. for saving a wounded comrade under fire. When writing to his wife on their wedding anniversary an account of what had happened he said:

“You will know by the time you receive this that I have been recommended for the V.C., an honour I never thought would come my way. I only took my chance, and did my duty to save my comrade. It was really nothing, but I shall never forget the congratulations and praise I received from our officers, my comrades, and our Brigadier-General. I shall ever remember them.”

Mrs. Dodson must have been a proud woman when she read this modest, manly letter, as also when she received yet another letter from the wife of her husband’s commanding officer, Captain Follett. Lady Mildred Follett sent her the following extract from a letter received from her husband:

“A thick fog came down, so I sent a group of three men out 100 yards to our front to warn us of an attack from the enemy. After they had been there an hour, the fog suddenly lifted, and they were fired on at close range by the Germans. One man was killed, one was wounded badly, and one crawled back. I didn’t know how to get the wounded man back, so I had to call for a volunteer, and a reservist, Dodson, at once responded, and went out and fetched him. He was heavily fired at, but not hit. He is quite all right.”

It is comforting to know that the bravest, even the most reckless, men constantly have marvellous escapes. Take the case of Lieutenant A. C. Johnston, the Hampshire county cricketer. The day before he was wounded, the nose of a shell hit a wall six inches above his head. Shortly after that a bullet hit the ground half a yard in front of him, bounded up, and hit him on the body, bruising his ribs. Then a bullet hit him over the heart, but was “spent” before reaching him. Finally, while he was sitting on the steps of a house, half the building was blown up, and he was not even touched!

You will often hear contemptuous allusions to “amateurs” and their doings. But amateurs have proved, especially in this war, that they often are just as good as those who have been carefully trained to do a special job.

One of the finest “amateur” corps in this war was that of the British Volunteer Despatch-riders. Thanks to their work the generals commanding were able to keep in constant touch with one another, a matter of vital importance in warfare.

Many of these young fellows were just fresh from their Universities, and had no previous military experience, but they showed remarkable dash and bravery while travelling on motor-cycles through a country infested with enemies.

Many and thrilling were their adventures. On one occasion an Australian from Cambridge, while speeding along a country road, suddenly came upon a party of fourteen German cavalrymen. With characteristic audacity he drew his revolver and shot down an officer and one man, whereupon the others ran away. Thus the Australian was able to deliver his despatch, which informed a corps commander that Germans were in the neighbourhood, and so prevented what might have been a disagreeable surprise.

The spy service, or, as they prefer to call it, the Secret Intelligence Department, has always been very cleverly conducted by the German War Office. Of the many devices resorted to by the enemy to convey secret information to those whom it concerned, the most curious and original was that known as the sign of the Black Cow.

All over the area of war the French and British troops were much surprised and mystified by seeing rough sketches of a black cow on walls and the sides of houses, even on gates and fences. Sometimes it was a small cow, sometimes a large cow; sometimes the cow was standing, sometimes she was lying down.

At last a French officer, cleverer or blessed with more imagination than his fellows, suddenly “tumbled to” the explanation. The small cow meant that the road in front was weakly defended. The large cow conveyed the warning that the enemy were strongly entrenched near by. Always the direction in which the head pointed told where the enemy lay. Only when the head was tossed back, and the horns were long and pointed, did it indicate to the enemy that an aeroplane reconnaissance would be valuable over there.

I think one of the stories of plain-man valour which impressed me most was that of a young telegraphist at Lille. He managed to move his instruments into the cellar of the house next to the Post Office. He then went and installed himself there; and for three weeks, helped by a few faithful friends who managed to give him food and water at certain long intervals, he conveyed valuable information to the Allied forces.

Now one of the most extraordinary features of this war has been the way in which towns and villages, aye, and even houses, have been taken and retaken alternately by friends and enemies. When the French had a temporary success the young telegraphist did not come out, as most people would have done; he remained where he was, knowing how probable was the presence of spies. Thus, when Lille was once more in German occupation, he was able to go on with his valuable help to the Allies.

A good many of us just now are anxious about some prisoner of war, and it is curious how few people know the pains, penalties, and privileges to which the prisoner of war is doomed or entitled. To begin with, the person of a prisoner of war is sacred, and on the whole he is well treated. Thus his captors have not the right to ask him for information which would do harm to his own side. He can, however, be forced to work for his captors. The Germans are said to make their prisoners work at digging trenches and making earthworks, which is not fair, for of course such defences are intended to be used against the prisoner’s own side. If a prisoner of war gives his word not to escape he is often allowed much more liberty, but, as a rule, British and French officers refuse to give any such promise. Should one of them escape, he may be fired at, but if he is retaken he may not be punished for having tried to escape.

In this war, Britain has treated her prisoners in a very generous and humane fashion. Those among them who are wounded were actually visited by our King and Queen, who spoke to them kindly in their own language, and gave orders that their comfort should be studied.

Immediately after what I have called the Battle of the Dykes, came one of the fiercest struggles of the war, that which centred round the curiously-named town of Ypres. This quaint, beautiful, old town was once, strange to say, besieged by an English Churchman, Henry Spencer, Bishop of Norwich. He failed to take Ypres because of the stout resistance offered to his soldiers by a hedge of thorn-bushes! This hedge grew on the ramparts, and proved a very real defence. In memory of their preservation the people of Ypres hold a fair every August, and in the Cathedral is a fine painting called “Our Lady of the Garden,” to show that the aid of Heaven as well as of the thorns had been invoked.

One wonders if the Kaiser had heard of that old siege, when he issued his cruel and wanton order commanding that Ypres, with its lovely old houses, and its famous Cloth Hall, should be razed to the ground. Such destruction could bring no military advantage. In fact, the British held on to Ypres with splendid tenacity, though many gallant and noble young lives were laid down during the fierce fighting which went on there.

Other cities, not less beautiful than Ypres, and not less famed in history, were the scene of awful battles during this phase of the great war.

Tournai, where an important engagement was fought, is a quiet, placid town where are made what are called “Brussels” carpets. According to tradition, the art of weaving these carpets was brought home from the Crusades by Flemish soldiers, who had learnt it from the Saracens. Tournai is quite used to being the scene of fierce and bloody conflicts. It was splendidly defended nearly five hundred years ago by a woman, Princess Christine d’Espinoy, an ancestor of the Comte de Lalaing who is now Belgian Minister in England. It was said of this princess that she united the skill of a prudent general to the valour of a brave warrior, and, although she was herself badly wounded, she only gave in when three-fourths of her garrison were either dead or unable to fight. You may be interested to learn that Tournai is not far from the famous battlefield of Fontenoy, where English, Dutch, and Austrians were defeated by the French with the help of the gallant Irish Brigades which had been raised by, and for, the Stuarts.

Then there is the town of Courtrai, where was fought the beautifully-named battle of the Golden Spurs. This must not be confused with the Battle of the Spurs which was fought two hundred years earlier. The Battle of the Golden Spurs was won by the weavers of Ghent and Bruges, fighting against the French. Hundreds of gilt spurs worn by the French officers were gathered on the field where British and French have now fought side by side.

Round Peronne, too, fierce fighting went on during the struggle in Northern France and Flanders. This town has had the honour of holding more than one king captive. King Charles the Simple was imprisoned there for fifteen years, and is even said to have been starved to death there. When Louis XI came to Peronne to meet Charles the Bold, the latter shut him up for two days in his castle to punish him for having stirred up Liège to rebel, and only released him when Louis consented to sign the Treaty of Peronne. The town was once finely defended by a woman, Catharine de Poix, five hundred years ago, and the fortress never fell till the Duke of Wellington took it in 1815.

I suppose there has never been before so long a battleline as that which extended from the sea at Ostend right across Flanders and through Northern and Eastern France to the borders of Switzerland. The armies of the Allies were under the supreme command of General Joffre, whom Lord Kitchener described at the Guildhall banquet as not only a great soldier but a great man. Sir John French and the British Army fought mostly in Flanders, where they repulsed terrific onslaughts delivered by the flower of the enemy, notably by the famous Prussian Corps of the Guards.

It is interesting to recall that among the British and French who thus fought side by side were descendants of heroes who had fought against one another on the field of Waterloo. For instance, a great grandson of the Duke of Wellington was, through his work in the Flying Corps, brought into daily touch with the Duke of Elchingen, a direct descendant of Marshal Ney.

As the fighting grew fiercer, so the number of the wounded rose to terrible proportions. Splendid deeds of valour were performed by the men and women, doctors, nurses, and ambulance men, whose duty it is to bring in and care for the soldiers who have fallen on the battlefield.

I must tell you of one truly heroic deed done by an English officer:

After an engagement in which the Germans were repulsed, they fell back, taking with them all their wounded except one, who was overlooked. An English officer, having given the order “Cease fire,” himself went out into the open to pick up the wounded German. He was struck by several German bullets and badly wounded, but the Germans, as soon as they saw what his object was, also ordered the “Cease fire.” Thereupon our officer staggered to the fallen man and carried him to the German lines. A German officer received him with a salute, and, calling for cheers, pinned upon his breast an Iron Cross. Then the officer returned to his own trenches. He was recommended for the Victoria Cross for this notable example of chivalry, but he died of his wounds.

The German soldier is sometimes a more gallant foe than is his commander. A couple of wounded Germans arrived at the hospital of Saint Mandier, Toulon, bearing round their necks cards on which had been written by the senior surgeon who had sent them there, the words: “These two Germans are recommended to the special care and attention of my colleagues, because they have saved a French officer.”

It then appeared that on the field of battle these Germans lay by the side of a French officer, who, like themselves, was badly wounded. Presently there came along a party of German cavalry, who, seeing the Frenchman, proposed in a mean and cowardly way to finish him off. But the two Germans—believed to be Bavarians—would have none of it, and themselves defended the wounded Frenchman. When all three reached hospital, the French officer told the story.

While our men were fighting and dying for their country in Flanders, people at home did all they could to help them. No one was too great, no one too humble, to support the many kindly and ingenious schemes which were devised.

Lord Roberts, by a personal appeal, obtained thousands of field-glasses for the use of our officers, and then, with like success, he obtained great numbers of saddles for our cavalry. To each donor, whether of the field-glasses or of the saddles, he sent a personal letter of thanks.

You know, of course, that Lord Roberts died as he would have wished to die—with the Army. It was about the middle of November that he went to France to see and speak with the Indian troops, and there he caught a chill which, alas! he had not strength to resist.

It would take a great book to tell you all that Lord Roberts tried to do, and all that he succeeded in doing, for his country. I can only here give you the splendid and heartening message which he sent to the children of the Empire:

“You have all heard of the war; you have all heard of the fighting forces sent from every part of the Empire to help the Mother Country. Why are we fighting? Because the British Empire does not break its promises, nor will it allow small nations to be bullied.

“Now, the British Government promised, with all the Great Powers of Europe, including Germany, that no army should set foot on the territory of the little nation of Belgium without her leave; in other words, she ‘guaranteed the neutrality of Belgium.’

“Germany, however, was bent on war, and on dominating other nations. Britain did her best to keep the peace, but Germany (breaking her word) marched her armies into Belgium to try and conquer France.

“Children of the Empire, this is why we are at war—to hold our promise, to help our friends, and to keep the Flag of Liberty flying, not only over our own Empire, but over the whole world.

“God Save our King and Empire.

“ROBERTS (Field-Marshal).”

Truly to Lord Roberts may be applied the famous lines:

“Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.”

You will remember my telling you of the exploits of the German cruiser Emden. Well, early in November she was caught and destroyed by the cruiser Sydney, of the Australian Navy.

The captain of the Emden, whose name is Karl von Müller, became a sort of hero of romance. This was partly because of his extraordinary ingenuity and daring, partly because he treated the crews of the liners he captured with humanity and politeness. Our seamen chivalrously gave him and his officers all the honours of war, allowing them to keep their swords.

Von Müller was accused by the crew of at least one of his captures of having sent out S.O.S. signals to lure merchant ships into his net. These signals, as you know, mean, “I am in great distress. Come as quick as you can to the rescue.” If he really played this trick, I find it difficult to admire him for it.

I do not know whether Captain von Müller is a reader of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne’s entertaining books, but he certainly repeated in real life an exploit of Commander M‘Turk in “The Western Ocean Pirate.” He added a sham funnel to the Emden, and crept into Penang Harbour, pretending to be a British cruiser. He was thus able to dispose of two warships, one of them Russian.

As winter drew near, everyone turned their thoughts to providing warm garments and warming comforts for the troops. The Queen appealed to the women of the Empire and splendidly they responded. Young and old fingers knitted socks, mittens, comforters, and body belts, till hundreds of thousands were despatched to the front and to the Fleet.

Always remember that a deed of real kindness warms the heart as truly as a cosy garment warms the body. Our brave men, as we know by their grateful letters home, felt ever so much heartened by these and other signs of our gratitude.

And while we were all working here, French women, Russian women, and German women, helped by their children, were also all intent on providing their soldiers with winter comforts. But thinking of those industrious, devoted German mothers and wives, I wonder if they ever give a thought to those Belgian women who, homeless wanderers owing to Germany’s ruthless inhumanity, can provide nothing for _their_ sons and brothers, but have to rely entirely on the kindness of their Allies and of America.

I do not think I can end this record of gallant, merciful, and kindly deeds without telling you of the Santa Claus ship from America.

The poor little Belgians, and those French boys and girls whose homes have been destroyed by fire, shell, and shot, are not likely to have any Christmas presents this year. Neither are the children of the other combatant nations likely to have a very happy Christmas. So a kind American editor bethought himself that here was a chance for the boys and girls of America. The American Government entered very heartily into the project of sending what is now known as the Santa Claus ship to Europe with Christmas presents for the children of the warring nations, and they offered the use of a United States battleship. It was settled that the battleship should fly at her foremast a large white flag, with a red Star of Hope in the centre, and under it the word “Inasmuch.” It was further arranged that the Santa Claus ship should proceed first to England, then to France, and then to Belgium, the German children’s presents being sent through Rotterdam.

I want you to try and make a special effort to remember the following deed of heroism, because it seems to me to be in some ways the most moving and splendid told you in this book. That is why I have put it last.

It was during an engagement near Nancy that Corporal Lancaster, of the Coldstream Guards, was shot in the neck. It was a terrible wound, and his comrades dragged him into the shelter of a haystack. “Be quiet,” they whispered, “for if you groan you will give away the position.”

Lancaster remained silent for six hours.

At last the Germans advanced. At a hundred yards from the haystack they were met by the blinding hail of the machine-gun section of the Coldstreams, and the silence of Corporal Lancaster was rewarded. Still grimly silent, he was gathered in by the Red Cross men at the end of a terrible day, and was soon on his way to England, who, we may safely assert, has never borne a braver son.

As the War Christmas drew in sight, kind Princess Mary suddenly bethought herself how nice it would be to send each of our sailors and soldiers a Christmas gift, or rather a Christmas parcel. Her Royal Highness accordingly issued a touching appeal to the public. It was responded to with great eagerness and enthusiasm. As a result five articles were sent to each man on active service, from Sir John French and Sir John Jellicoe to the youngest private or sailor serving under him. Every parcel contained some tobacco in a brass box on which was engraved, in a medallion, the names of the Allies, the proud words “Imperium Britannicum,” and a portrait of Princess Mary.

I feel I cannot end a record of gallant and merciful deeds more suitably than with the beautiful supplication for peace written by a French prince, Charles of Orleans, when a prisoner in England five hundred years ago.

I have not attempted to find or to provide a translation, for this poem, written in what a boy poet once called stained-glass-window French, is perfect, full of the humble piety and unquestioning faith of an age more trusting and holier than ours.

“Priez pour paix, douce Vierge Marie, Reine des cieux et du monde maistresse, Faites prier, par vostre courtaisie, Saints et saintes, et prenez vostre adresse Vers vostre fils, requérant sa hautesse Qu’il lui plaise son peuple regarder Que de son sang a voulu racheter, En déboutant guerre que tout désvoie; De prières ne vous veuillez lasser, Priez pour paix, le vrai trésor de joie.”

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. at Paul’s Work, Edinburgh

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.