Just such frank blue eyes were his... .

G.o.d! How horrible war is!

I have reason to be gay: There is one less foe to slay.

I have reason to be glad: Yet--my foe is such a lad.

So I watch in dull amaze, See his dying eyes a-glaze, See his face grow glorified, See his hands outstretched and wide To that bit of ruined wall Where the flames have ceased to crawl, Where amid the crumbling bricks Hangs _A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX._

Now, oh now I understand.

Quick I press it in his hand, Close his feeble finger-tips, Hold it to his faltering lips.

As I watch his welling blood I would stem it if I could.

G.o.d of Pity, let him live!

G.o.d of Love, forgive, forgive.

His face looked strangely, as he died, Like that of One they crucified.

And in the pocket of his coat I found a letter; thus he wrote: 'The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, I'm wondering can G.o.d be here?

To-night amid the drunken brawl I saw a Cross hung on a wall; I'll seek it now, and there alone Perhaps I may atone, atone... .'

Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone.

No other saw but G.o.d alone; Yet how can I forget the sight Of that face so woeful white!

Dead I kissed him as he lay, Knelt by him and tried to pray; Left him lying there at rest, Crucifix upon his breast.

Not for him the pity be.

Ye who pity, pity me, Crawling now the ways I trod, Blood-guilty in sight of G.o.d.

My Job

I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, And I 'opes the G.o.d of soldier men will see me safely through it.

Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is ... _DYIN'._

I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now.

I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, I've been in many 'ot old 'do's'; I've sc.r.a.ped through safe some'ow, But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another.

A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers.

They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle d.i.c.ky.

If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, And so ... I 'opes this finds you well.--Your werry lovin' Micky."

I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there.

I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me.

I've seen so much of b.l.o.o.d.y death I don't seem for to care, If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me.

I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead ...

It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! ... _A DECENT JOB IN DYIN'._

The Song of the Pacifist

What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?

Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?

By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!

If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;

If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear... .

Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.

Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.

Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.

Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.

When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; When we thank our G.o.d for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace ... _THAT WILL BE VICTORY._

The Twins

There were two brothers, John and James, And when the town went up in flames, To save the house of James dashed John, Then turned, and lo! his own was gone.

And when the great World War began, To volunteer John promptly ran; And while he learned live bombs to lob, James stayed at home and--sneaked his job.

John came home with a missing limb; That didn't seem to worry him; But oh, it set his brain awhirl To find that James had--sneaked his girl!

Time pa.s.sed. John tried his grief to drown; To-day James owns one-half the town; His army contracts riches yield; And John? Well, _SEARCH THE POTTER'S FIELD._

The Song of the Soldier-born

_Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant._

Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's pa.s.sion.