 | War poems |  |
v
TO THE ARTISTS' RIFLES (BELOVED OF MARS AND MINERVA)
IN THE FIRST BATTALION OF WHICH REGIMENT I HAVE MANY FRIENDS
NAM UT OMITTAM PHILIPPUM THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
40
Dying for your Country
I
When Britain first, at Heaven's command,Arose from out the azure main,
We had no buttons and no band—
We did our murder very plain;
There were no heroes, no V.C.'s,
No glory for the honoured dead—
We went and slew our enemies,
Or they slew us, and nothing said.
II
Slaughter was slaughter, gore was gore,And kicks were kicks the same as now,
And death was just as sharp and sure,
And just as cooling to the brow.
We did not fight for pelf or fame,
Neither for honour did we strive,
Nor for to make Old England's name,
But just to keep ourselves alive.
41
III
It's him or you, ourselves or them—An ugly wild-beast law—and yet
It hits us with a gust like flame
When we are minded to forget;
For all our sweet tarantara,
Our “love of right” and “hate of ill,”
Boil down to the old formula—
We must be killed unless we kill.
IV
So, Johnny, keep your barrel bright,And go where you are told to go,
And when you meet, by day or night,
Our friend the enemy, lay him low;
And you must neither boast nor quake,
Though big guns roar and whizz-bangs whizz—
Don't die for your dear country's sake,
But let the other chap die for his.
58
They died content!—(Why, sure!—
Did-ums want its liqueur? . . .
And, waiter—that cigar!
And, waiter—call the car!—
And, waiter—bring the bill!—
These ‘neutrals’ make me ill!)”
Did-ums want its liqueur? . . .
And, waiter—that cigar!
And, waiter—call the car!—
And, waiter—bring the bill!—
These ‘neutrals’ make me ill!)”
59
A Rhyme of Right or Wrong
“Though the race be to the swift
And the battle to the strong
History must one day sift
What is right from what is wrong.
And the battle to the strong
History must one day sift
What is right from what is wrong.
“History alone can show
Warring nations their true fame,
And on each of them bestow
Proper shares of praise and blame.
Warring nations their true fame,
And on each of them bestow
Proper shares of praise and blame.
“We are right? Let's hope we are:
But how dreadful it would be
If we chanced to win the war
And no praise from History!
But how dreadful it would be
If we chanced to win the war
And no praise from History!
“Therefore clasp Herr Murderer's fist,
Offer terms to Lustundloot,—
Is he not a Socialist?
And an expert with the flute?
Offer terms to Lustundloot,—
Is he not a Socialist?
And an expert with the flute?
60
“Keeping on is wrong indeed—
Germans feel and love and pray:
If you prick them don't they bleed
Like the Hebrew in the play?”
Germans feel and love and pray:
If you prick them don't they bleed
Like the Hebrew in the play?”
Thus the babblers more or less
Platitudinously present
To the public consciousness
An uplifting argument. . . .
Platitudinously present
To the public consciousness
An uplifting argument. . . .
History! you've always burned
For sheer justice just too late;
But so far as we're concerned
Put this on your little slate:—
For sheer justice just too late;
But so far as we're concerned
Put this on your little slate:—
Right or wrong we did not sheathe
Britain's sword till the last Hun
Carried back his loosened teeth
To his own place in the sun.
Britain's sword till the last Hun
Carried back his loosened teeth
To his own place in the sun.
Right or wrong we did not rest
Till we'd laid that sovereign herb
Comfort, on the outraged breast
Of the Belgian and the Serb.
Till we'd laid that sovereign herb
Comfort, on the outraged breast
Of the Belgian and the Serb.
Right or wrong we watched with France
From the Alps unto the sea,
Through the night of black mischance
Till the dawn of victory.
From the Alps unto the sea,
Through the night of black mischance
Till the dawn of victory.
61
Right or wrong we smashed the yoke
Greed had forged for the world's neck;
Right or wrong we dealt the stroke
Which brought Kaiserdom to wreck.
Greed had forged for the world's neck;
Right or wrong we dealt the stroke
Which brought Kaiserdom to wreck.
Right or wrong we never hid
Our belief that wars would cease;
Right or wrong we made a bid
For the thousand years of peace.
Our belief that wars would cease;
Right or wrong we made a bid
For the thousand years of peace.
Right or wrong for this we gave
Our young sons to death and doom,—
Every garden had its grave,
Every field a hecatomb.
Our young sons to death and doom,—
Every garden had its grave,
Every field a hecatomb.
Right or wrong the German mob
Got their ultimate meal of grit;
(Right or wrong we took the job,
Right or wrong we finished it.)
Got their ultimate meal of grit;
(Right or wrong we took the job,
Right or wrong we finished it.)
Right or wrong our faith was true
Though the end seemed “not in sight”;
Right or wrong we muddled through
And were thankful—wrong or right.
Though the end seemed “not in sight”;
Right or wrong we muddled through
And were thankful—wrong or right.
65
Joffre
There's a solid lump of War—
Name o' Joffre,
Lives on a swift motor-car,
General Joffre;
Plays with Death at hide and seek—
In and out the Battle's reek—
Kisses heroes twice a week—
Father Joffre!
Name o' Joffre,
Lives on a swift motor-car,
General Joffre;
Plays with Death at hide and seek—
In and out the Battle's reek—
Kisses heroes twice a week—
Father Joffre!
Up at dawn to see his friends—
Healthy Joffre!
Has no patience with week-ends,
Have yer, Joffre?
“Get the work done—then let's dine!”
Likes his omelette and his wine,
Goes to bed at half-past nine—
Vigorous Joffre!
Healthy Joffre!
Has no patience with week-ends,
Have yer, Joffre?
“Get the work done—then let's dine!”
Likes his omelette and his wine,
Goes to bed at half-past nine—
Vigorous Joffre!
“Nibble, nibble all the day”—
(Patient Joffre!)
Makes the Kaiser kneel and pray,
Don't it, Joffre?
“Nibble, nibble all the night”—
Music for the pale moonlight,
Worries 'em and bleeds 'em white;
Saigner Joffre!
(Patient Joffre!)
66
Don't it, Joffre?
“Nibble, nibble all the night”—
Music for the pale moonlight,
Worries 'em and bleeds 'em white;
Saigner Joffre!
Oh, he's keen on German dead,
Careful Joffre,
“Every one of 'em,” he's said
(Monsieur Joffre),
“Helps to fatten the warm, brown
Soil that still is France's own—
Dig 'em in and stamp 'em down!”
Farmer Joffre!
Careful Joffre,
“Every one of 'em,” he's said
(Monsieur Joffre),
“Helps to fatten the warm, brown
Soil that still is France's own—
Dig 'em in and stamp 'em down!”
Farmer Joffre!
He don't hurry up the Fates,
Doesn't Joffre,
He just waits and waits and waits—
Watchful Joffre!
Then he pounces—un, deux—biff!
Takes 'em right in the midriff,
“Kamerad—par grace!” they sniff.
“------!” says Joffre!
Doesn't Joffre,
He just waits and waits and waits—
Watchful Joffre!
Then he pounces—un, deux—biff!
Takes 'em right in the midriff,
“Kamerad—par grace!” they sniff.
“------!” says Joffre!
All the time he's fighting Bosche,
Steadfast Joffre!
In his four-three mackintosh,
Thrifty Joffre!
Want to see the German thief
Use a pocket-handkerchief?—
Holler at him, brisk and brief,
“Joffre, Joffre, Joffre!”
Steadfast Joffre!
In his four-three mackintosh,
Thrifty Joffre!
67
Use a pocket-handkerchief?—
Holler at him, brisk and brief,
“Joffre, Joffre, Joffre!”
T'other day, he thought he'd go
(Thinks, does Joffre!)
To the seaside for a blow,
Cheerful Joffre!
Bulgars at the Serbian throat,
Greece behaving like the goat—
“Put me on the Channel boat,”
Murmurs Joffre!
(Thinks, does Joffre!)
To the seaside for a blow,
Cheerful Joffre!
Bulgars at the Serbian throat,
Greece behaving like the goat—
“Put me on the Channel boat,”
Murmurs Joffre!
And he wanders down Whitehall,
Simple Joffre!
For to pay his morning call,
Civil Joffre!
Cabinet Ministers in pairs,
Hearing footsteps on the stairs,
Jumped up from their easy chairs—
“Lord, it's Joffre!”
Simple Joffre!
For to pay his morning call,
Civil Joffre!
Cabinet Ministers in pairs,
Hearing footsteps on the stairs,
Jumped up from their easy chairs—
“Lord, it's Joffre!”
What he told 'em—well, you know
(Whisper Joffre!)
Must be printed so—and—so,
(Censor—Joffre!)
But on this and this and that,
You may bet your Sunday hat,
They had quite a useful chat,
Friendly Joffre!
(Whisper Joffre!)
Must be printed so—and—so,
(Censor—Joffre!)
But on this and this and that,
You may bet your Sunday hat,
They had quite a useful chat,
Friendly Joffre!
68
So here's to Joffre Bahadur,
Soldier Joffre!
May he make a hash of “Fader,”
Frenchman Joffre!
Mr. Kipling, I am sure,
Will be pleased for us to score,
On the old slate, two names more—
“France” and “Joffre”!
Soldier Joffre!
May he make a hash of “Fader,”
Frenchman Joffre!
Mr. Kipling, I am sure,
Will be pleased for us to score,
On the old slate, two names more—
“France” and “Joffre”!
69
Excuses
I
I have a widow'd mother, to whom I cleave
With a devouring passion. My sole care
And joy she is. “What money I can spare”
Is hers—when she can get it. If I leave
Upon your urgent errand she will grieve
(Poor soul), and find no comfort anywhere—
Beauty draws some men by a single hair;
But me—I'm all for mother, please believe.
With a devouring passion. My sole care
And joy she is. “What money I can spare”
Is hers—when she can get it. If I leave
Upon your urgent errand she will grieve
(Poor soul), and find no comfort anywhere—
Beauty draws some men by a single hair;
But me—I'm all for mother, please believe.
A boy's best friend's his mother without a doubt
And a most excellent mother have I got:
'Tis true, the other day, she said, “You go—
I'll struggle through!” I murmured, “Certainly not!”—
Sharp like, and firm. . . . Dear heart, she'll never know
How much I've loved her—since the war broke out!
And a most excellent mother have I got:
'Tis true, the other day, she said, “You go—
I'll struggle through!” I murmured, “Certainly not!”—
Sharp like, and firm. . . . Dear heart, she'll never know
How much I've loved her—since the war broke out!
70
II
In me behold the trusty stay and prop
Of Mr. Cheesemonger. He calls me Sam;
I mix his eggs and cut his “splendid” ham,
And clean his windows and sweep up his shop,
And drive his pony till it's fit to drop,
And help his customers into the tram—
I'm indispensable, I am, I am,
And if I went the business would go flop.
Of Mr. Cheesemonger. He calls me Sam;
I mix his eggs and cut his “splendid” ham,
And clean his windows and sweep up his shop,
And drive his pony till it's fit to drop,
And help his customers into the tram—
I'm indispensable, I am, I am,
And if I went the business would go flop.
Kind Mr. C. remarks, “A pretty thing
To want my right-hand man—and like their cheek!
Now, who comes first, your Country and your King
Or me?” Of course, I answered, “You do, sir!”
He raised my screw to eighteen bob a week
And claims exemption for a “manager.”
To want my right-hand man—and like their cheek!
Now, who comes first, your Country and your King
Or me?” Of course, I answered, “You do, sir!”
He raised my screw to eighteen bob a week
And claims exemption for a “manager.”
III
And I—ah, mine's a bitter case indeed;
You call me slacker, coward, what you will—
I have a patent duty to fulfil
By my white soul whose promptings I must heed:
It's not my fault if heroes choose to bleed,
Blood I abhor, and no man's blood I'll spill,
My conscience simply will not let me kill—
The Sixth Commandment's plain for all to read.
You call me slacker, coward, what you will—
I have a patent duty to fulfil
By my white soul whose promptings I must heed:
It's not my fault if heroes choose to bleed,
Blood I abhor, and no man's blood I'll spill,
My conscience simply will not let me kill—
The Sixth Commandment's plain for all to read.
71
Clearly, who fights is either wicked or mad,
And rage and malice are the spawn of hell;
No quarrel have I with Germans or with Turks:
I'm single—yes! Profession? I used to sell
Cats' meat before the war; but times being bad
I've taken a job at a munition works.
And rage and malice are the spawn of hell;
No quarrel have I with Germans or with Turks:
I'm single—yes! Profession? I used to sell
Cats' meat before the war; but times being bad
I've taken a job at a munition works.
72
It
“England has an Achilles' heel.”
—Hindenburg
—Hindenburg
Out of iron and blood
And flame of the nether pit,
And fifty sorts of mud,
They fashioned the great god It.
And flame of the nether pit,
And fifty sorts of mud,
They fashioned the great god It.
And as he frowned on high
They bade him speak them luck,
And shouted solidly—
“Hoch, hoch! Hoch, hoch—Von Kluck!”
They bade him speak them luck,
And shouted solidly—
“Hoch, hoch! Hoch, hoch—Von Kluck!”
But dumb and sour and grim,
He eyed them haut en bas:
They cried, “Let's flatter him—
Moltke! hurrah, hurrah!”
He eyed them haut en bas:
They cried, “Let's flatter him—
Moltke! hurrah, hurrah!”
Yet, heavy and dull as lead,
No sign might he evince,
“We'll tickle him up!” they said—
“Heil, heil! Heil, heil—Kronprinz!”
No sign might he evince,
“We'll tickle him up!” they said—
“Heil, heil! Heil, heil—Kronprinz!”
73
Deafer than any stone,
Dumber than any stock,
Frowned he. They yelled, “Our own
Von Falkenhayn, hoch, hoch!”
Dumber than any stock,
Frowned he. They yelled, “Our own
Von Falkenhayn, hoch, hoch!”
Yea, he sat there like sin
Knowing nor sense nor wit,
Till the dry throat of Berlin
Gasped “Hindenburg is It!”
Knowing nor sense nor wit,
Till the dry throat of Berlin
Gasped “Hindenburg is It!”
Then did It speak. Like steel
His words—“Beware the Foe
For your Archilles' heel
Is her Achilles' toe!”
His words—“Beware the Foe
For your Archilles' heel
Is her Achilles' toe!”
82
If
If you can lend your money to McKenna,
And keep on lending all you have to spare;
If you believe that “simple things like senna
Are just as good as the best Brighton air”;
If you can wrastle six days in the City,
Running the show short-handed, or alone,
And never have your moments of self-pity
And never once say “Bless the telephone!”
And keep on lending all you have to spare;
If you believe that “simple things like senna
Are just as good as the best Brighton air”;
If you can wrastle six days in the City,
Running the show short-handed, or alone,
And never have your moments of self-pity
And never once say “Bless the telephone!”
If you can face the rain on homeward buses,
To save the cost of the old taxi ride,
And wonder why young people make such fusses
When “24's” are few and “full inside”;
If you can don your “country” coat and breeches
And dine in state off yesterday's cold joint,
And read the missus Mr. Asquith's speeches
And reason with her till she sees the point;
To save the cost of the old taxi ride,
And wonder why young people make such fusses
When “24's” are few and “full inside”;
If you can don your “country” coat and breeches
And dine in state off yesterday's cold joint,
And read the missus Mr. Asquith's speeches
And reason with her till she sees the point;
83
If you survey “the drama as it passes,”
Without a thought of this or that man's guile;
If you deny that Ministers are asses,
And pay the taxes with a friendly smile;
If you can write before your son's name, “Private,”
And never wish he wore a nice red tab;
If on mature reflection, you arrive at
The view that life in war-time isn't drab;
Without a thought of this or that man's guile;
If you deny that Ministers are asses,
And pay the taxes with a friendly smile;
If you can write before your son's name, “Private,”
And never wish he wore a nice red tab;
If on mature reflection, you arrive at
The view that life in war-time isn't drab;
If you can hear without a secret quailing
That there were losses in last night's advance;
If you can meet the postman without paling,
And open telegrams with nonchalance;
If you can read the letter from the Major,
That puts a “finis” to your earthly joy,
And stand up straight—and stiff-lipped—you may wager
That, on the whole, you are a Man, old boy!
That there were losses in last night's advance;
If you can meet the postman without paling,
And open telegrams with nonchalance;
If you can read the letter from the Major,
That puts a “finis” to your earthly joy,
And stand up straight—and stiff-lipped—you may wager
That, on the whole, you are a Man, old boy!
| War poems | |