The Poems of Robert W. Service (1874-1958), That I Grew up With

From Robert W. Service Home Page:

All works by Robert Service are in the Public Domain; They Are Not  Owned by and so Cannot be Attributed Too, Controlled by,  or Claimed by; ANY Person and /or Publishing Company In The United States of The Americas, including Amazon and Bryant McGill.

Robert William Service (1874-1958) was"ENGLISH" (HE WAS NOT CANADIAN and although adopted by Kilwinning, Ayrshire he was not Scottish) wartime correspondent, novelist and poet and the most commercially successful poet of all time. Although he grew up and was educated in Scotland he remained a British (English) citizen all his life.

 

Robert Service Memorial Kiwinning Scotland

Service was born on 16 January 1874 in Preston, Lancashire the son of a Scottish bank clerk and English factory owner's daughter.  He lived in Scotland - and was educated at Glasgow University - until he was 22 - initially working in banking - before emigrating to Canada, initially working with his brother as a rancher for 18 months.

Service spent a rather brief period of his life drifting across Canada and the U.S. and worked for a period with the Canadian Bank of Commerce.  It was while working for the bank that Service was posted to the Yukon Territory, a terrain that inspired him to begin writing Canadian frontier poetry.  His first collection was published as Songs of a Sourdough in 1907.

A prolific writer - and one who became; for some unknown reason; known as "the Canadian Kipling"though as stated previously, he was not Canadian;

and in spite of sneers from the literary establishment. Service also published The Spell of the Yukon in 1907.  Ballads of a Cheechako followed in 1909 and Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (an apt title) in 1913.  The Pretender followed in 1914.  He wrote a novel, The Trail of 98 - on conditions in the Klondike - in 1910. Of course,  all of these works are now unquestionably,public domain(world wide). 

During the Balkan Wars of 1912-13 Service accepted a position as a war journalist.  It was during this period that he met and married a Frenchwoman in Paris.  During the First World War he volunteered for service with an ambulance unit for two years before becoming a British war correspondent but connected to the Toronto Star(after once leaving Canada and the Yukon, he never returned.

Service's post-war career saw him continue to publish novels and poetry, and he continued to travel widely.The onset of the Second World War found him in Poland; he escaped back to the U.S. where he settled in California, eventually returning to France after the war.

Service wrote two autobiographical novels, Ploughman of the Moon (1945) and Harper of Heaven(1948).

He died on 11 September 1958 in Lancieux aged 84.

Decorations

My only medals are the scars
I've won in weary, peacetime wars,
A-fighting for my little brood,
To win them shelter, shoon and food;
But most of all to give them faith
In God's good mercy unto death.

My sons have medals gleaming bright,
Proud trophies won in foreign fight;
But though their crosses bravely shine,
My boys can show no wounds like mine -
Grim gashes dolorously healed,
And inner ailings unrevealed.

Life-lasting has my battle been,
My enemy a fierce machine;
And I am marked by many a blow
In conflict with a tireless foe,
Till warped and bent beneath the beat
Of life's unruth I own defeat.

Yet strip me bare and you will see

A worthy warrior I be;

Although no uniform I've worn,

By wounds of labour I am torn;

Leave the their ribbands and their stars...

Behold! I proudly prize my scars.

"Think of an Ayrshire poet named Robert who has a global following and whose fame has survived his death. Think of a poet whose fans hold a celebratory dinner each year to enjoy his life and work, and one name Burns springs to mind. However the Alloway born Rabbie died penniless in his mid 30s, while another Ayrshire poet was a multi millionaire living in the south of France when he passed away aged 84 years old. What is more, he wrote the biggest selling poem in history - yet in his home town, he is virtually unknown. His name was Robert W Service, and his life and work is finally getting the recognition it deserves later this year when the people of Kilwinning host a lavish dinner in his name. While Scots around the globe celebrate with a Burns Supper at the end of January each year, in the wild west of Canada the people of Whitehorse gather for a dinner to honour a man they call the Bard of the Yukon. But he was no "cannuck" – for Robert W Service was born in Preston, Lancashire on January 16th 1874. His father, also called Robert, was from the town of Kilwinning where he has a bank clerk and had been posted south to cover the Preston bank when his son was born. For generations the Service family had lived inKilwinning and when Robert senior moved north to work in Glasgow, he sent the future poet, and his brother John, to be raised by their grandparents in the Ayrshire town. Robert began school in the town and clearly was born to be a poet because on the occasion of his 6thbirthday he asked if he might say grace he came up with his first known work : God bless the cakes and bless the jam; Bless the cheese and the cold boiled ham: Bless the scones Aunt Jeannie makes, And saves us all from bellyaches. Amen A few years later, Robert moved to Glasgow to be with his parents, and followed his father by taking a career in banking at the age of 15 (he joined the Commercial Bank of Scotland which today is the Royal Bank of Scotland). The work bored him and when a younger brother inspired him with the idea of becoming a ranch hand in Canada, his sense of adventure took him across the Atlantic in 1896. However, it was not the romantic Cowboy lifestyle he wanted and Robert worked in tough labouring jobs for 18 months in the wilds of British Columbia. Soon his sense of adventure took him south to the warmth of California before he decided to try his old Banking skills once again and in 1902 he got a job with the Canadian Bank of Commerce in Vancouver, British Columbia. Although the great Goldrush was a thing of the past, the names of Dawson and Whitehorse stirred the blood of young Robert and he secured a posting to the latter in 1904 and to the former in 1908. When not dealing with bank matters he wandered the trails and explored the rugged countryside, finding poetry in its wilderness. At social events, Robert was known to recite other poets work but after the Whitehorse Star had published a few of his own works, it’s editor asked Service for something local. "Give us something about our own bit of earth" he said. "There’s a rich paystreak waiting for someone to work.." Robert thought for a moment. "It was a Saturday night, and from the various bars I heard sounds of revelry" so the thought came into his mind … A bunch of Boys were whooping it up … and he was on his way. He rushed back to his bank desk to write his words down but startled a sleeping colleague who fired a shot at the intruder ! Had he not been such a poor shot, the Shooting of Dan McGrew might never have been written. This poem was to go on to earn Robert Service half a million pounds on its own! Many more poems followed and by publishing them he was able to earn enough money to quit the bank and move to a log cabin in the hillside. "Behind it was a mountain; below, the valley of the Yukon. The view was inspiring, the isolation all I could have wished. But what attracted me was a pair of moose horns that branched above the door. They seemed a symbol of success, like the Winged victory." Service used his earnings to travel around Europe, writing occasional newspaper articles, and enjoyed the bohemian life of the Latin Quarter in Paris where he met and married his wife Germaine in 1913. He was 41 years old when the First World War broke out and was refused enlistment due to varicose veins. Instead he became a war correspondent and served for 2 years as an ambulance driver on the front lines, inspiring him to write more powerful poetry than ever before. At the war’s end, Robert returned to his life of travel and returned in 1930 to Kilwinning in Scotland to erect a monument to his family at the town’s cemetery. His travels had taken him to Poland when the Second World war broke out, managing to escape back to France. Robert moved his family to the safety of America’s West Coast during the war years and Hollywood had him join with other celebrities in helping the morale of troops – visiting US Army camps to recite his poems. He was also asked to play himself in the movie … The Spoilers, working alongside Marlene Dietrich and John Wayne. At the war’s end he returned to France and took up residence in Monte Carlo where he enjoyed the friendship of the rich and famous. On the marriage of the Hollywood actress Grace Kelly to Prince Rainier of Monaco, Service wrote a special poem for the couple as his wedding gift. However, throughout the world, it was the average man on the street that read and related with the poet’s work. Robert's work appealed to all Canadians and all of Canada. Prof J McKay, the chief biographer of Robert Service notes that "no other poet, save Burns, has enjoyed such wide appeal with the common man". Indeed, he may well have been the most widely read poet of the century – Charles Linburgh allowed himself a book of one of Service’s poems as luggage on his epic flight across the Atlantic in the Spirit of St Louis, and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother is known to be a fan of his work.  In the Autumn of 1958 while staying at his villa in Brittany, Robert Service contracted flu which stressed his "weak heart" and he passed away at the age of 84. His beloved wife survived him until 1989 when she died aged 102. With the arrival of the new Millennium, the community of Kilwinning will finally recognise the life of Robert Service in style. The town’s Millennium Committee have organised a special Dinner on September 1st on the lawn of the town’s stately Montgreenan Mansion House Hotel where an audience of up to 400 will be able to enjoy the sort of gathering that the Canadians have been hosting for years. Indeed a party of Canucks will be travelling from the Yukon to enjoy the fellowship of the people of Service’s "home town"of Kilwinning. The official Vietnam War Veterans Association have also indicated an intention to participate as veterans were given Service’s war poetry to read as part of their therapy as it’s honesty and humanity were thought to help them come to terms with their experiences. Robert Service’s daughter Iris, who still lives in France and is in her 84th year, has indicated her pleasure that the town she last visited in 1976, to unveil a commemorative plaque where her father once lived, is recognizing him in this way.But perhaps the greatest honour was bestowed by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother (in this her Centennial Year) who has graciously agreed to be Patron of the evening. She is, herself, a fan of Robert Service’s work and has given the event her Royal blessing, showing once again how the Kilwinning Poet has reached into the very highest strata of society around the world. With all of this activity, the town of Kilwinning is waking up to the importance of Robert Service in the world of poetry, and will be using the dinner as a first step towards closer community links with Whitehorse. It certainly looks like being a gala occasion – one befitting the world’s most commercially successful poet – Robert Service – the more successful-- Ayrshire Poet!" --ORIGINAL SOURCES UNKNOWN THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and glare, There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear. He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse, Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house. There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew. There’s men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell; And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell; With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done, As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one. Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do, And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that’s known as Lou. His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze, Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze. The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool. In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway, Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play. Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear; With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, A helf-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars? — Then you've a hunch what the music meant . . . hunger and might and the stars. And hunger not of the belly kind, that’s banished with bacon and beans, But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means; For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above; But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowded with a woman’s love — A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true — (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that’s known as Lou.) Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear; But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear; That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil’s lie; That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die. 'Twas the crowning cry of a heart’s despair, and it thrilled you through and through — "I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew. The music almost dies away . . . then it burst like a pent-up flood; And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood. The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash, And the lust awoke to kill, to kill . . . then the music stopped with a crash, And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way; In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm, And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn; But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true, That one of you is a hound of hell . . . and that one is Dan McGrew." Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark; And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark. Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew, While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that’s known as Lou. These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know. They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it’s so. I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two — The woman that kissed him — and pinched his poke — was the lady known as Lou. A Rolling Stone There's sunshine in the heart of me,  My blood sings in the breeze; The mountains are a part of me,  I'm fellow to the trees. My golden youth I'm squandering,  Sun-libertine am I; A-wandering, a-wandering,  Until the day I die.       I was once, I declare, a Stone-Age man,    And I roomed in the cool of a cave;   I have known, I will swear, in a new life-span,    The fret and the sweat of a slave:   For far over all that folks hold worth,    There lives and there leaps in me   A love of the lowly things of earth,    And a passion to be free.   To pitch my tent with no prosy plan,    To range and to change at will;   To mock at the mastership of man,    To seek Adventure's thrill.   Carefree to be, as a bird that sings;    To go my own sweet way;   To reck not at all what may befall,    But to live and to love each day.   To make my body a temple pure    Wherein I dwell serene;   To care for the things that shall endure,    The simple, sweet and clean.   To oust out envy and hate and rage,    To breathe with no alarm;   For Nature shall be my anchorage,    And none shall do me harm.   To shun all lures that debauch the soul,    The orgied rites of the rich;   To eat my crust as a rover must    With the rough-neck down in the ditch.   To trudge by his side what'er betide;    To share his fire at night;   To call him friend to the long trail-end,    And to read his heart aright.   To scorn all strife, and to view all life    With the curious eyes of a child;   From the plangent sea to the prairie,    From the slum to the heart of the Wild.   From the red-rimmed star to the speck of sand,    From the vast to the greatly small;   For I know that the whole for good is planned,    And I want to see it all.   To see it all, the wide world-way,    From the fig-leaf belt to the Pole;   With never a one to say me nay,    And none to cramp my soul.   In belly-pinch I will pay the price,    But God! let me be free;   For once I know in the long ago,    They made a slave of me.   In a flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt,    Here, pal, is my calloused hand!   Oh, I love each day as a rover may,    Nor seek to understand.   To ENJOY is good enough for me;    The gipsy of God am I;   Then here's a hail to each flaring dawn!   And here's a cheer to the night that's gone!   And may I go a-roaming on    Until the day I die! Then every star shall sing to me  Its song of liberty; And every morn shall bring to me  Its mandate to be free. In every throbbing vein of me  I'll feel the vast Earth-call; O body, heart and brain of me  Praise Him who made it all! Men of the High North Men of the High North, the wild sky is blazing;    Islands of opal float on silver seas;   Swift splendours kindle, barbaric, amazing;    Pale ports of amber, golden argosies.   Ringed all around us the proud peaks are glowing;    Fierce chiefs in council, their wigwam the sky;   Far, far below us the big Yukon flowing,    Like threaded quicksilver, gleams to the eye.   Men of the High North, you who have known it;    You in whose hearts its splendours have abode;   Can you renounce it, can you disown it?    Can you forget it, its glory and its goad?   Where is the hardship, where is the pain of it?    Lost in the limbo of things you've forgot;   Only remain the guerdon and gain of it;    Zest of the foray, and God, how you fought!   You who have made good, you foreign faring;    You money magic to far lands has whirled;   Can you forget those days of vast daring,    There with your soul on the Top o' the World?   Nights when no peril could keep you awake on    Spruce boughs you spread for your couch in the snow;   Taste all your feasts like the beans and the bacon    Fried at the camp-fire at forty below?   Can you remember your huskies all going,    Barking with joy and their brushes in air;   You in your parka, glad-eyed and glowing,    Monarch, your subjects the wolf and the bear?   Monarch, your kingdom unravisht and gleaming;    Mountains your throne, and a river your car;   Crash of a bull moose to rouse you from dreaming;    Forest your couch, and your candle a star.   You who this faint day the High North is luring    Unto her vastness, taintlessly sweet;   You who are steel-braced, straight-lipped, enduring,    Dreadless in danger and dire in defeat:   Honour the High North ever and ever,    Whether she crown you, or whether she slay;   Suffer her fury, cherish and love her--    He who would rule he must learn to obey.   Men of the High North, fierce mountains love you;    Proud rivers leap when you ride on their breast.   See, the austere sky, pensive above you,    Dons all her jewels to smile on your rest.   Children of Freedom, scornful of frontiers,    We who are weaklings honour your worth.   Lords of the wilderness, Princes of Pioneers,    Let's have a rouse that will ring round the earth. The Cremation of Sam McGee There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, Where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'Round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold Seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way That he'd "sooner live in hell". On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way Over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold It stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze Till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one To whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight In our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead Were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you Won't refuse my last request." Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; Then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread Of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, You'll cremate my last remains." A pal's last need is a thing to heed, So I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; But God! He looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day Of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all That was left of Sam McGee. There wasn't a breath in that land of death, And I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, Because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you To cremate those last remains." Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, And the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, In my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, While the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! How I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay Seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent And the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, But I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, And it hearkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, And a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice It was called the "Alice May". And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, And I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "Is my cre-ma-tor-eum." Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, And I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, And I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- Such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, And I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn't like To hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, And the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled Down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak Went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about Ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . Then the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, In the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, And he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear You'll let in the cold and storm -- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, It's the first time I've been warm." There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.  The Ballad of Soulful Sam You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; Out there where the bombs are bustin', and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam -- Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam. Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird! He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest. For I -- and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! 'Ave been -- let me whisper it 'oarsely -- a gambler 'alf of me days; A gambler, you 'ear -- a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep, And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren! -- I'd rather gamble than sleep. I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain. Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf, And when I'd no one to play with -- why, I'd go and I'd play by meself. And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck, And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition," And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!" And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man. But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front! The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam. Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, 'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same. And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract. Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come! Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um. And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead? No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest. On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys -- but the life o' me pal was saved. And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, and it wolloped me bang on the breast. Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ere Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? With a throat as dry as a -- oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do. 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; Clustered 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 God, 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' coke. 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 nob; 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 gods. 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 God! 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." 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 grasses; 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 God! 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 God, Thy night! LILIES (the light is waning), only lilies you say, Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass 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. . . . God'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: God 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 Assam: God bless the man that first invented Tea! I think them lazy lumps o' gods 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 sexton'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 smut; 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 space, 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 hell 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 gods, 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-pe\re 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-PE\RE JOFFRE. Son He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give. Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. For look! How the leaves are falling now, and the winter won't be long. . . . Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song! How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, on the beautiful river of Dream. Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey. For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!" Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth I know that my heart would hear. . . . . . Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: how worthier could he die? Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I. For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, and the boys of our hearts must pay; And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day. And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!" The Black Dudeen Humping it here in the dug-out, Sucking me black dudeen, I'd like to say in a general way, There's nothing like Nickyteen; There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; So be sure that a bloke Has plenty to smoke, If you wants him to fight your wars. When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, I begin to think of my baccy plug. I whittle a fill in my horny palm, And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. I trim the edges, I tamp it down, I nurse a light with an anxious frown; I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, And all my face is a blissful grin; And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, For I likes it hot and I likes it strong. Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow. There was Micky and me on a night patrol, Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; And sure I thought I was worse than dead Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. And mind you, water up to your knees. And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze. And if we ventured our noses out A "typewriter" clattered its pills about. The field of glory! Well, I don't think! I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink. Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, He always was having ill-luck, poor lad. Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through; Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag? -- I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." And there he shivered and cussed his luck, So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, Poor little Micky! he went to rest. But the dawn was near, though the night was black, So I left him there and I started back. And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, And one little blighter just chipped me ear. But there! I got to the trench all right, When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, And a word that doesn't look well in type: I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE. So I had to do it all over again, Crawling out on that filthy plain. Through shells and bombs and bullets and all -- Only this time -- I do not crawl. I run like a man wot's missing a train, Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun Tickle my heels, but I run, I run. Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) I run like a man that's no ideer Of hunting around for a sooveneer. I run bang into a German chap, And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. And just to show him that I'm his boss, I gives him a kick on the parados. And I marches him back with me all serene, With, TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN. Sitting here in the trenches Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, But it smashes me old dudeen. God blast that red-headed sniper! I'll give him somethin' to snipe; Before the war's through Just see how I do That blighter that smashed me pipe. The Little Piou-piou * The French "Tommy". Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum; But now we are here with a song and a cheer To serve at the sign of the drum. They put us in trousers of scarlet, In big sloppy ulsters of blue; In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, And they call us the little piou-piou, Piou-piou, The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, The swinging and singing piou-piou; And so with a rattle we march to the battle, The weary but cheery piou-piou. Encore un petit verre de vin, Pour nous mettre en route; Encore un petit verre de vin Pour nous mettre en train. They drive us head-on for the slaughter; We haven't got much of a chance; The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad To battle and die for La France. For some must be killed, that is certain; There's only one's duty to do; So we leap to the fray in the glorious way They expect of the little piou-piou. En avant! The way of the gallant piou-piou, The dashing and smashing piou-piou; The way grim and gory that leads us to glory Is the way of the little piou-piou. Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive/. To-day you would scarce recognise us, Such veterans war-wise are we; So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, So "crummy", yet gay as can be. We've finished with trousers of scarlet, They're giving us breeches of blue, With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, Yet still we're the little piou-piou. Nous les aurons! The jesting, unresting piou-piou; The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; The dying, defying piou-piou. A\ la bayonette! Jusqu'a\ la mort! Sonnez la charge, clairons! Bill the Bomber The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke. We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, And it's odd -- we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one." Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two." I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. And I'd lost me 'at and rifle -- but I told you that before, So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three." So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs -- that was the 'ardest blow, To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain. Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear. Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; And now they're all excited like, but -- I am drawin' near; And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away". The Whistle of Sandy McGraw You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw. . . . . .