Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew.

Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start; And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, Me wretched past like a pitchur--the sins of a gambler's life.

For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; I'd only--a deck of cards, boys, but ... _IT SEEMED TO DO JUST THE SAME._

Only a Boche

We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie; For what's the use of risking one's skin for a _TYKE_ that's going to die?

What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire, When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, and all messed up on the wire?

However, I say, we brought him in. _DIABLE!_ The mud was bad; The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had!

And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan; And how we were wet with blood and with sweat!

but we carried him in like our own.

Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance, And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, and remarks, "He hasn't a chance."

And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge on the glistening, straw-packed floor, And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore.

For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim, And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls and our faces bristly and grim; And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play, And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away.

As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath, You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death.

Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit; The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit, So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there, And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare.

Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be, The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me.

It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that.

It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat, Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue, With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through; Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down, And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown.

And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring, And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string, A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see: Just as I thought ... on the other side the faces of children three; Cl.u.s.tered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls, With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls.

"Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two,"

And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue.

Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of G.o.d, Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod; Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind, It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind.

For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain, And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again.

So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play, Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away.

War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance; But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance.

One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot.

No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err; For a moment I thought of other things ...

_MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE._

Pilgrims

For oh, when the war will be over We'll go and we'll look for our dead; We'll go when the bee's on the clover, And the plume of the poppy is red: We'll go when the year's at its gayest, When meadows are laughing with flow'rs; And there where the crosses are greyest, We'll seek for the cross that is ours.

For they cry to us: 'Friends, we are lonely, A-weary the night and the day; But come in the blossom-time only, Come when our graves will be gay: When daffodils all are a-blowing, And larks are a-thrilling the skies, Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.

'But never, oh, never come sighing, For ours was the Splendid Release; And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying To know we were winning you Peace!

So come when the valleys are sheening, And fledged with the promise of grain; And here where our graves will be greening, Just smile and be happy again.'

And so, when the war will be over, We'll seek for the Wonderful One; And maiden will look for her lover, And mother will look for her son; And there will be end to our grieving, And gladness will gleam over loss, As--glory beyond all believing!

We point ... to a name on a cross.

My Prisoner

We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, Fightin' fierce as fire because It was 'im or me as must be downed; 'E was twice as big as me; I was 'arf the weight of 'e; We was like a terryer and a 'ound.

'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke.

Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' c.o.ke.

Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf!

Why, it fairly made me laugh, 'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound.

Couldn't fight for monkey nuts.

Soon I gets 'im in the guts, There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground.

In I goes to finish up the job.

Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is n.o.b; Speakin' English good as me: "'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e; "Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?"

"Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; "But--yer knows the reason why: If we pokes our noses out we're dead.

"Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and (As a gent like you must understand), If I 'olds you longer 'ere, Wiv yer pals so werry near, It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; If I lets yer go away, Why, you'll fight another day: See the sitooation I am in.

"Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel Of a 'alf a yard o' steel, I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; Now, jist think yerself in luck... .

'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck, Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead."

'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile!

'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while!

Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme, Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme: Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer G.o.ds.

Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure You, my friend, are still obscure... ."

"In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds."

Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too... .

Oh, dear G.o.d! The work I planned to do, And to think this is the end!"

"'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend, Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs.

Picters, statoos, is that why You should be let off to die?

That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers."