 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
121
A Rhyme of Gaffer D---
I know the old chap very well,
He called on us when I was young—
They sang a hymn and tolled a bell,
“Friend after friend departs,” they sung.
He called on us when I was young—
They sang a hymn and tolled a bell,
“Friend after friend departs,” they sung.
He took my father somewhat quick,
He took my brother from his play,
He took my dog (a dirty trick—
Though he's the Gaffer, anyway).
He took my brother from his play,
He took my dog (a dirty trick—
Though he's the Gaffer, anyway).
After—I didn't mind of 'im
A-cuttin' up his grisly capers,
For years and years, although I'd seem
To read about 'im in the papers.
A-cuttin' up his grisly capers,
For years and years, although I'd seem
To read about 'im in the papers.
When war broke out, I saw the bills,
What says, “Your King and Country Need You,”
My 'eart with Rule Britannia fills
An' whispers, “Go where glory leads you.”
What says, “Your King and Country Need You,”
My 'eart with Rule Britannia fills
An' whispers, “Go where glory leads you.”
122
But though I loved the 'Uns a treat,
An' would have 'listed brisk an' 'earty,
I always seemed to get cold feet
A-thinkin' of that same Old Party.
An' would have 'listed brisk an' 'earty,
I always seemed to get cold feet
A-thinkin' of that same Old Party.
Till—well, at last, it had to be,
My girl, she says, “You'll make me proud!”
“Wot about 'im?” says I. Says she,
“Sign up, my lad, an' 'im be blowed!”
My girl, she says, “You'll make me proud!”
“Wot about 'im?” says I. Says she,
“Sign up, my lad, an' 'im be blowed!”
An' so I signed and so I joined,
An' learnt my facin's an' my drillin',
An' how to wash my ears behind,
An' always be alert an' willin'.
An' learnt my facin's an' my drillin',
An' how to wash my ears behind,
An' always be alert an' willin'.
An' how to do things at the word,
An' stamp when 'alted or “attention”-ed,
An' all the time I never heard
The Old Chap's name so much as mentioned.
An' stamp when 'alted or “attention”-ed,
An' all the time I never heard
The Old Chap's name so much as mentioned.
Our little lot, they say, is “it,”
And not a bunch to stick at trifles,
In fact for 'ficiency an' grit
We're next door to the Artists' Rifles.
And not a bunch to stick at trifles,
In fact for 'ficiency an' grit
We're next door to the Artists' Rifles.
An' yet, my friends, twixt you an' me,
Despite the bluff they feed the boys on,
The Reg'ment don't like Gaffer D---
An', reely, 'ates 'im worse than poison.
Despite the bluff they feed the boys on,
The Reg'ment don't like Gaffer D---
An', reely, 'ates 'im worse than poison.
123
He is the Major's constant dread,
The fly in the Lieutenant's ointment,
Even the Colonel, so 'tis said,
Will meet him only by appointment.
The fly in the Lieutenant's ointment,
Even the Colonel, so 'tis said,
Will meet him only by appointment.
Oh, he's a wash-out, that Old Gent!
If 'tweren't for him, so 'elp me never,
We'd all of us be well content,
To fight for 'arth and 'ome for ever!
If 'tweren't for him, so 'elp me never,
We'd all of us be well content,
To fight for 'arth and 'ome for ever!
You should ha' seen 'im t'other day,
A-beckonin' us across the trenches—
The very corporils knelt to pray,
An' look at pictures of their wenches!
A-beckonin' us across the trenches—
The very corporils knelt to pray,
An' look at pictures of their wenches!
We did our bit—oh yes, we did,
An' he was in his element—
He took a toll which can't be hid
Until the big new draft is sent.
An' he was in his element—
He took a toll which can't be hid
Until the big new draft is sent.
But still I thank my stars, I does,
('Appy am I it should be so)
That though he wasn't kind to us
He weren't no kinder to the foe. . . .
('Appy am I it should be so)
That though he wasn't kind to us
He weren't no kinder to the foe. . . .
You won't get rid of that Old Card,
Leastways till you've got rid of sin,—
So here's his 'ealth, say I—the Hard
Old Chap that spoils the soldierin';
Leastways till you've got rid of sin,—
So here's his 'ealth, say I—the Hard
Old Chap that spoils the soldierin';
124
The Chap that mocks at mothers' prayers,
And loves to widow the young bride;
Yet hurteth only whom he spares,
And makes the rest most satisfied.
And loves to widow the young bride;
Yet hurteth only whom he spares,
And makes the rest most satisfied.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |