Poetical Pictures of the Great War :: :: University of Virginia Library

early member of the National Union of Police and Prison Officers (he was No. 23 on the roll), and had contributed often to the Union Journal, using the pen name of “White Ensign.” He had been in the Navy, originally, and, on the outbreak of war, he rejoined that service. One day, when on watch, he detected the periscope of an enemy submarine, and judging the position critical, without waiting for orders, he fired at, and hit it. For firing without orders he was arrested, but when the actual facts came to the knowledge of his captain, he was released, the whole ship's company was assembled, and he was thanked, publicly, before them. Later, he received the Distinguished Service Medal. On the 29th of February, 1916, the Auxiliary Cruiser “Alcantara,” on which Dundas was serving as Leading Seaman, was engaged, on patrol duty, off the East Coast of Scotland, searching for contraband. She encountered the German Cruiser, “Greif,” disguised as a Norwegian merchantman. The “Alcantara” approached the “Greif,” and while Dundas, as coxswain, was waiting, with his boat's crew, at her side, to take his officer on board the “Greif,” suddenly the latter lowered her false bulwarks, and fired a broadside at the “Alcantara.” One of the shots killed Dundas and the boat's crew. The “Alcantara” replied, and fought bravely; but, alas! was, at last, sunk. Eventually H.M.S. “Andes” came up, and sank the “Greif.”

Men of the Union! see to it,
That aye, 'mid joy or ruth,
Worthy are ye of such a one
In constancy and truth.

Constant since boyhood's day he strives to serve
Wherever Duty calls him, and to nerve
His soul to truth. At first a sailor's life
Is his, with many a pleasant change how rife!

But soon, he finds his duty just as sweet
In changeless circuits of a London “beat.”
When war's fierce stormcloud bursts, how suddenly!
To him there comes once more the call to sea.
Then, ever brave, he leaves his much-loved home
To fight for Britain on the northern foam.
One day on him there dawns a sense of harm,
He knows not why,—a subtle, vague alarm,
Though, like young Nelson, “never saw” he “Fear,”
His inmost soul is thrilled by danger near.
His is the watch. Eager he scans the deep
With eyes all vigilant, and sees, up-creep
A periscope. It is! it is the foe!
'Tis instant now to strike ere yet below
The dread torpedo speeds. He fires his gun,
And saves his ship. What then? What he has done
He lacks an order for, so speedily
Behold him made a prisoner, but when he
At length, hath justice, gone is dire disgrace,
His mates are called, and, now, before his face,
He hears himself high praised, and, for the rest,
The D.S.M. he wears upon his breast.

But, ah! the gallant hearts foredoomed to die!
One day a seeming merchantman drew nigh
His ship, the “Alcantara,” which was sent
To search for contraband. Swiftly she went

Towards the stranger. See! she lowers a boat
To take the searchers. Scarce is that a-float
(Dundas is in her) than all suddenly
False bulwarks dropt are by the enemy,
A broadside, winged with death, booms o'er the wave,
Striking the boat, and slaying all the brave
Therein.

Dundas's torch of life is out!
But puissant Death can never put to rout
Courage like his. It lives from age to age,
A glorious, mighty, deathless heritage.
Britain shall live long as her sons can say
“Our mother still exults in ‘heroes of to-day.’”

Men of the Union! see to it,
That aye, 'mid joy or ruth,
Worthy are ye of such a one
In constancy and truth.

Easter Monday, April 24, 1916.

OUR BROTHERS AT THE FRONT

[_]

The Brotherhood Federation was much cheered by hearing of Brotherhood gatherings in the trenches, and the following hymn was written by me in response to a special request for a hymn which could be sung both at the meetings at home, and at those in the trenches, and be one more proof to our brothers at the front that they are all, ever and always, in our loving memory. Of set purpose I used the familiar common metre so that the words would lend themselves to many tunes long much loved, and at the Brotherhood connected with the Marylebone Presbyterian Church, London, “Belmont” has been employed, Sunday by Sunday, for several months with marked acceptance.

Our hearts are with you all the week,
But must when Sunday comes
While musing, in our homes at peace,
On you, where roll the drums.

And when, on Sunday afternoon,
We see your vacant place,
We were not brothers did not gloom
Fall on our hearts a space.

Yet you and we, on shore or sea,
By faith can surely meet,
And re-unite our sundered souls,
Before the mercy-seat.

There shall we greet you, soul by soul,
There shall we watch and pray,
There shall we keep our courage up,
Till dawns the happy day

Soon, soon, it cannot be too soon,
When, home from sea or shore,
With joy that war at last is o'er
With you we meet once more.

AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE.

[_]

Whatever view may be taken about War, and, personally I agree with Tolstoi both as to its horror and its inherent futility, nothing but contempt ought to be felt for the smug hyprocrisy which would condemn selfless courage, even if, sometimes, mistaken. Very early in life I stayed at this most interesting spot, during what I thought, then, to be the permanent ascendency of “The Manchester School” as it was called, or “the peace-at-any-price party,” and wrote the stanzas which follow:—

When war is gone, our people say
The heroes of the war were wrong—
That they who formed our Britain's sway,
And made her Empire firm and strong,

Were callous cut-throats nothing less,
Who joyed in war for slaughter's sake;
Who yearned to banish happiness;
Who loved with blood their thirst to slake.

But I, with swelling heart, to-day
Land on this shore, which years ago
Saw from its crag-encircled bay
Our Nelson's only overthrow,

And ask, do those who grub and prose,
And by their lights our heroes try,
Perform their life-tasks more than those
Whose task is but “to do or die”?

A VETERAN OF 1870.

(In the Basse Plante, Pau, France.)

A regiment's band stands up to play
Within a sheltered wood,
To make its friends and strangers gay,
And please them, if it could.

It plays full many a soldier's air,
Now tender, low, and sweet,
Now surely meant to banish care,
With martial fire replete—

Telling of conquest and renown,
With scarce a note of pain,
Of trophies ta'en, of arms laid down,
Of heroes home again.

Smart citizens on every side,
Are pacing up and down,
And “ladies fair,” with graceful pride,
Show each to each their gown.

Yet see I a poor cripple lean
Against an agèd tree,
I see his thread-bare blouse is clean,
Despite his poverty.

Once had he borne a soldier's part,
Had learnt how to endure,
God grant him still the steadfast heart;
For him there is no cure.

Would he but speak? What does he think
Of the fierce joys of war?
Would he now—gaily near their brink,
Or shun them evermore?

THE CHARGE.

(A real incident.)

“I believe in the next world, and, do all I can not to send my patients into it, drunk.” The actual remark of an experienced physician.

“About six o'clock every man was given a glass of rum to drink the King's health and success to our attack.” From an article, printed in a weekly newspaper, written by one who was present.

[_]

Whatever view may be held as to the taking of alcohol in normal circumstances, few, one would suppose, would justify, on moral grounds, its being served out, neat, just before deadly combat, to men, mostly young, and many of whom are, unfortunately, totally unacquainted with its effects.

1st Soldier.
And is it thus we slay? I will not drink.

[Pours out the contents.]
An Officer.

Righteous, say they, the war is. So it is!
Then why degrade the splendid trade of war
By usage like to this?

Surely the race
Who fought, and bled, and won, at Waterloo,
And many a hard-fought field before and since,
Are not the cravens basely thus to need “Dutch courage.”

A colour-sergeant of the swash-buckler variety,
(gulping down his liquor.)
“See! what come of all the cant
Of ‘temperance’ to win the war, when now
Rum, and such rum! is given to make us fight.

“GOOD-BYE, OLD MAN.”

(An actual occurrence.)

A battery of Field Artillery is ordered into action with a call of extreme urgency. As it advances at the gallop the favourite horse of one of the gunners is wounded mortally, and falls, helpless, on the ground. Instinctively, almost involuntarily, and quick as lightning, the soldier who loves it leaps from his limber and rushes to its help. Disentangling the harness, and unloosing the collar, he relieves somewhat its sufferings. Then he encircles the poor head, with its piteous eyes, in his affectionate arms; and, kissing the forehead, exclaims, “Good-bye, old man.” At the same instant, a ruined cottage, ten yards to the left, is struck by a shell, whose bursting fragments illumine the sky and air, and a sergeant, observing his absence, though already far ahead, beckons him, imperatively, to rejoin.

Good-bye, Old Man, I seem to see
The meadow where, how quietly,
You grazed, at first, a happy foal
Harmless in happiness. The whole

Green country-side had scarce another
Creature more joyous—gladsome brother
To streams, and winds, and soaring-birds.

Then, later, would that halting words
Of mine could paint my Nellie's ride
With laughing eyes, and legs a-stride,
Her first ride on your friendly back.
E'en now I see yon woodland track,
Soft with the fallen russet leaves.
Alack! alack! my poor heart grieves
To quit you, tortured. By what right
Are you made victim in a fight
It is not yours to comprehend?
Yea; men are hard; some day, good friend,
May we judge differently; and think;
May we judge differently; and shrink,
From torture given without appeal.
For me, I know not; yet can feel.

Good-bye, Old Man, may Death come soon
For you, I crave that only boon,—
And, yet, another would I seek;
May no dog scent, afar, your sleek
And well-kept flesh before you die,
Lest he, with hungry eyes, draw nigh,
And, with his hot and famished breath,
Pollute you in the pangs of death.