Poetical Pictures of the Great War Suitable for Recitation. First Series ... Second Series ... Third Series ... Fourth Series. By Mackenzie Bell |
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| Third Series. |
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 | Poetical Pictures of the Great War |  |
Third Series.
PRAISE TO THE BRAVE.
Sweet and fitting is it to die for the fatherland.
Old Roman Proverb.
If England to herself remain but true.”
Shakespeare.
A quotation which, I think, peculiarly appropriate to the national circumstances of his country at this, his third centenary.
Police Constable Alexander Dundas, T Division of the Metropolitan Force, stationed at Teddington, was a very
That aye, 'mid joy or ruth,
Worthy are ye of such a one
In constancy and truth.
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!
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.
One day a seeming merchantman drew nigh
His ship, the “Alcantara,” which was sent
To search for contraband. Swiftly she went
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.
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.’”
That aye, 'mid joy or ruth,
Worthy are ye of such a one
In constancy and truth.
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.
But must when Sunday comes
While musing, in our homes at peace,
On you, where roll the drums.
We see your vacant place,
We were not brothers did not gloom
Fall on our hearts a space.
By faith can surely meet,
And re-unite our sundered souls,
Before the mercy-seat.
There shall we watch and pray,
There shall we keep our courage up,
Till dawns the happy day
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:—
The heroes of the war were wrong—
That they who formed our Britain's sway,
And made her Empire firm and strong,
Who joyed in war for slaughter's sake;
Who yearned to banish happiness;
Who loved with blood their thirst to slake.
Land on this shore, which years ago
Saw from its crag-encircled bay
Our Nelson's only overthrow,
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.)
Within a sheltered wood,
To make its friends and strangers gay,
And please them, if it could.
Now tender, low, and sweet,
Now surely meant to banish care,
With martial fire replete—
With scarce a note of pain,
Of trophies ta'en, of arms laid down,
Of heroes home again.
Are pacing up and down,
And “ladies fair,” with graceful pride,
Show each to each their gown.
Against an agèd tree,
I see his thread-bare blouse is clean,
Despite his poverty.
Had learnt how to endure,
God grant him still the steadfast heart;
For him there is no cure.
Of the fierce joys of war?
Would he now—gaily near their brink,
Or shun them evermore?
THE CHARGE.
(A real incident.)
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.
And is it thus we slay? I will not drink.
[Pours out the contents.]
An Officer.
Then why degrade the splendid trade of war
By usage like to this?
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.
The meadow where, how quietly,
You grazed, at first, a happy foal
Harmless in happiness. The whole
Creature more joyous—gladsome brother
To streams, and winds, and soaring-birds.
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.
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.
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