 | War poems |  |
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.
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