Tipperary Days

Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there.

Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them, On the road, the white road, all the afternoon; Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune:

_It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go; It's a long way to Tipperary, And the sweetest girl I know.

Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Lester Square: It's a long, long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there._

"Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them!

Throw them flowers and kisses as they pa.s.s you by.

Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them Going out so gallantly to dare and die?

What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland?

Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King?

'Ma.r.s.eillaise' or 'Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land, Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing:

_"C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai; C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', Et la belle fille qu'je connais.

Bonjour, Peekadeely!

Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire!

C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', Mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."_

The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died.

And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!-- Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back:

_It's a long way to Tipperary (Which means "'ome" anywhere); It's a long way to Tipperary (And the things wot make you care).

Good-bye, Piccadilly ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well); It's a long, long way to Tipperary-- ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)_

Fleurette

(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It's off at the knee.

Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn.

(I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right.

It isn't that, it's my face.

Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place; Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.

Nurse won't give me a gla.s.s, But I see the folks as they pa.s.s Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress ...

Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I _am_ gay; But I wasn't a while ago.

If you'd seen me even to-day, The darndest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall--in fine, Wishing that I was dead... .

What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men?

Listen! I'll tell you all.

That 'poilu' across the way, With the shrapnel wound in his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed.

All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet; The softest, tenderest sigh; A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!

Mon frere, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw--how I envied him!

A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child--Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again.

(I was awfully blue, you see), And I thought with a bitter pain: "Such visions are not for me."

So there like a log I lay, All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say: "Ah! Who is that 'malheureux'?"

Then briefly I heard him tell (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit, Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye, And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh-- But I wouldn't just swear to that.

And maybe she wasn't so bright, Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight, Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose, Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose, And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen--Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go, The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed: "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!

But me, I'm a thing of dread.

For me nevermore the bliss, The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, And a great light shone in her eyes.

And me! I could only stare, I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head: "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips, And I hadn't even the power To say: "G.o.d bless you, dear!"

And I felt such a precious tear Fall on my withered cheek, And darn it! I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away, And I knew that my eyes were wet.

Ah, not to my dying day Will I forget, forget!

Can you wonder now I am gay?

G.o.d bless her, that little Fleurette!

Funk

When your marrer bone seems 'oller, And you're glad you ain't no taller, And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; When your skin creeps like a pullet's, And you're duckin' all the bullets, And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; When your legs seem made of jelly, And you're squeamish in the belly, And you want to turn about and do a bunk: For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it!

Don't let your mateys know it-- You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk.

Of course there's no denyin'

That it ain't so easy tryin'

To grin and grip your rifle by the b.u.t.t, When the 'ole world rips asunder, And you sees yer pal go under, As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; I admit it's 'ard contrivin'

When you 'ears the sh.e.l.ls arrivin', To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' s.p.u.n.k; But, my lad, you've got to do it, And your G.o.d will see you through it, For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk.