Once again 'e seems ter think awhile.

Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: "Why, no, sir, it's not the best; There's a locket next me breast, Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue.

That's the best I've done," says 'e.

"That's me darter, aged three... ."

"Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too."

Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride Me own little Mary Jane.

Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine, And we talks as friendly as can be; Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, 'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day, Wonders--_'OW WOULD 'E 'AVE TREATED ME?_

Tri-colour

_POPPIES,_ you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood.

It's gleaming wet in the gra.s.ses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade.

See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies, And the whole red world is a-welter... . Oh G.o.d! I'm afraid! I'm afraid!

_CORNFLOWERS,_ you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes?

Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies.

Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat.

See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white!

Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat... .

Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O G.o.d, Thy night!

_LILIES_ (the light is waning), only lilies you say, Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-gra.s.s waves.

No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day: It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves.

Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown.

Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss... .

Darkness ... but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down... .

G.o.d's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win--_MY CROSS._

A Pot of Tea

You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; The very breath of it is ripe with cheer.

You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: G.o.d bless the man that first discovered Tea!

Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day, I think I've drunk enough to float a barge; All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, To rum they serves you out before a charge.

In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham; I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam; But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of a.s.sam: G.o.d bless the man that first invented Tea!

I think them lazy lumps o' G.o.ds wot kips on asphodel Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong.

Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; And if I don't give some poor bloke a s.e.xton's job to do, To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea).

To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew, As we drink the giddy victory in Tea.

The Revelation

_The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and s.m.u.t; Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train: Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?_

We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen; They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men.

We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; But when we go back to our Sissy jobs,--oh, what are we going to do?

For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, with a new-found joy in our eyes, Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies.

And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, Will suddenly melt to a vision of s.p.a.ce, of violent, flame-scarred night?

Then ... oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight!

Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey?

As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead?

Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now will haunt us through all the years; Heaven and h.e.l.l rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day?

Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, we're pledged to the Real Romance; We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die ... but first-- we'll live; by the G.o.ds, we'll live!

We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, and we'll see men laugh and die; We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: But the hardest bit of it all will be--when we come back home again.

_For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, and some of us teach in a school; Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again._

Grand-pere

And so when he reached my bed The General made a stand: "My brave young fellow," he said, "I would shake your hand."

So I lifted my arm, the right, With never a hand at all; Only a stump, a sight Fit to appal.

"Well, well. Now that's too bad!

That's sorrowful luck," he said; "But there! You give me, my lad, The left instead."

So from under the blanket's rim I raised and showed him the other, A snag as ugly and grim As its ugly brother.

He looked at each jagged wrist; He looked, but he did not speak; And then he bent down and kissed Me on either cheek.

You wonder now I don't mind I hadn't a hand to offer... .

They tell me (you know I'm blind) _'TWAS GRAND-PEeRE JOFFRE._