Part 1

A Gloucestershire Lad

A Gloucestershire Lad at Home and Abroad

by F. W. Harvey

_Fourth Impression_

London Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. 1917

_First Impression, September 1916._ _Second Impression, October 1916._ _Third Impression, January 1917._ _Fourth Impression, March 1917._

_All rights reserved._

TO ALL COMRADES OF MINE WHO LIE DEAD IN FOREIGN FIELDS FOR LOVE OF ENGLAND, OR WHO LIVE TO PROSECUTE THE WAR FOR ANOTHER ENGLAND

PREFACE

Most of these poems were written at the Front, and appeared in the _Fifth Gloucester Gazette_--the first paper ever published from the trenches.

The author was then a Lance-Corporal in the 5th Battalion of the Gloucestershire Regiment, and as such gained the Distinguished Conduct Medal in August, 1915.

The award appears as follows in the _London Gazette_--

F. W. HARVEY.--“For conspicuous gallantry on the night of the 3rd-4th August, 1915, near Hebuterne, when, with a patrol, he and another Non-Commissioned Officer went out to reconnoitre in the direction of a suspected listening post. In advancing they encountered the hostile post evidently covering a working party in the rear. Corporal Knight at once shot one of the enemy, and, with Lance-Corporal Harvey, rushed the post, shooting two others, and assistance arriving the enemy fled. Lance-Corporal Harvey pursued, felling one of the retreating Germans with a bludgeon. He seized him, but finding his revolver empty and the enemy having opened fire, he was called back by Corporal Knight, and the prisoner escaped. Three Germans were killed and their rifles and a Mauser pistol were brought in. The patrol had no loss.”

The poems are written by a soldier and reflect a soldier’s outlook. Mud, blood and khaki are rather conspicuously absent. They are, in fact, the last things a soldier wishes to think or talk about.

What he does think of is his home.

Bishop Frodsham, preaching in Gloucester Cathedral, after visiting the Troops in France, quoted the following poem in a passage which admirably expresses the feelings of most of our fighting men.

“To suppose that these men enjoy the fighting would be sheer nonsense. The soldier does not want to go on killing and maiming Germans or Turks. He wants to get the dreadful war finished, so that he can get back to England again. But he wants the matter fought to a finish because he has seen in the villages and towns of France what German domination means. It has made him think furiously, as the French say. Many regiments and ships’ companies while away the impracticable hours by publishing little newspapers.

“The _Fifth Gloucester Gazette_ is one of these journals. We are proud of the courage and the gaiety these little papers show. We laugh at their quips and jokes: then suddenly we find that the corners of our mouths are quivering and the tears are gathering in our eyes. We see that the boys are thinking about England below their gaiety. One young poet lifts the veil in this exquisite little rondeau--

“‘If we return, will England be Just England still to you and me-- The place where we must earn our bread? We who have walked among the dead, And watched the smile of agony, And seen the price of liberty, Which we have taken carelessly From other hands. Nay, we shall dread: If we return, Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily The thing that men have died to free. Our English fields shall blossom red In all the blood that has been shed, By men whose guardians are we, If we return.’”

That is perhaps the keynote of a book which the author has dedicated to all dead and living comrades who have loved England.

J. H. COLLETT, C.M.G., COLONEL

Commanding the Fifth Battalion of the Gloucestershire Regiment in France.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE BY COLONEL J. H. COLLETT, C.M.G. vii

_In Flanders_ xv

A SONG OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE 1

BALLADE OF THE RICH HEART 3

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH PERRY 5

A GLOUCESTERSHIRE WISH AT EASTERTIDE 6

SONG OF THE ROAD 7

PIPER’S WOOD 8

BALLADE OF RIVER SAILING 9

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH 11

CRICKET: THE CATCH 13

WONDERS 14

TRIOLET 15

TRIOLET 16

WHAT GOD SAID 17

TO HIS MAID 18

BALLADE OF DAMNABLE THINGS 19

SONG OF HEALTH 21

GRATITUDE 22

THE SOLDIER SPEAKS 23

A PRESENT FROM FLANDERS 24

IF WE RETURN 25

A PEOPLE RENEWED 26

THE AWAKENING 27

THE RETURN 28

LAND OF HEART’S DELIGHT 29

GONNEHEM 30

THE REST FARM 31

BALLADE OF BEELZEBUB, GOD OF FLIES 32

TO THE KAISER 34

ROBERT HERRICK SOLILOQUIZES ON THE C.O. 36

THE THREE PADRES 37

WALT WHITMAN DESCRIBES MAJOR W. 38

SERGEANT FINCH 39

C COMPANY COOK 40

EPITAPH 41

SONNET 42

THE FIRST SPRING DAY 43

DEFIANCE 45

THE ORCHARDS, THE SEA, AND THE GUNS 46

DYING IN SPRING 47

VICTORY 48

DEATH THE REVEALER 49

F. W. H. 50

POETRY 51

PROSE POEMS--

1. HEAVEN 52

2. THE MOTH 53

3. THE ARTIST 54

4. THE WINDOW GLASS 55

5. IN THE FIELD OF TIME 56

6. BLUE GRASS 57

7. THE POET 58

8. SORROW 59

9. THE MIRACLE 60

10. FAITH 61

11. TIME--THE HORSE 62

12. THE REBUILDING OF REALITY 63

13. THE TOKEN 64

_IN FLANDERS_

_I’m homesick for my hills again-- My hills again! To see above the Severn plain Unscabbarded against the sky The blue high blade of Cotswold lie; The giant clouds go royally By jagged Malvern with a train Of shadows. Where the land is low Like a huge imprisoning O I hear a heart that’s sound and high, I hear the heart within me cry: “I’m homesick for my hills again-- My hills again! Cotswold or Malvern, sun or rain! My hills again!”_

A SONG OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE

(_Dedicated to the Gloucestershire Society_)

_North, South, East, and West: Think of whichever you love the best. Forest and vale and high blue hill: You may have whichever you will, And quaff one cup to the love o’ your soul Before we drink to the lovely whole._

Here are high hills with towns all stone, (Did you come from the Cotswolds then?) And an architecture all their own, And a breed of sturdy men.

But here’s a forest old and stern, (Say, do you know the Wye?) Where sunlight dapples green miles of fern, A river wandering by.

Here’s peaceful meadow-land and kine, (Do you see a fair grey tower?) Where sweet together close entwine Grass, clover, and daisy flower.

Here stretches the land toward the sea (Behold the castle bold!) Where men live out life merrily, And die merry and old.

_North, South, East, and West: Think of whichever you love the best. Forest and vale and high blue hill: You shall have whichever you will, To quaff one cup to the love o’ your soul Before we drink to the lovely whole._

BALLADE OF THE RICH HEART

What thief is he can rob this treasury, Which hath not gold but dreams within its gates? What power can enter in to take from me My treasure, while upon the threshold waits “Courage,” my watch-dog, keeping back the fates Which follow close until I do depart In safety from their little loves and hates? Singing of all I carry in my heart.

Guarded of dreams against all evil chance, With young Adventure arm in arm I go To laugh at Luck and silly Circumstance. And, counting naught that comes to me my foe, I change, if ’tis my whim, the winter snow To blowing blossom: and by that same art I fashion as I will Life’s weal and woe: Singing of all I carry in my heart.

Let me go lame and lousy like a tramp But feel the wind and know the moonlit sky! What matter if the falling dew be damp-- Still is it dew! And well contented I Among my dreams (in seeming poverty) Far from the cities and the noisy mart,-- With Life and Death--my dearest friends--to lie, Singing of all I carry in my heart.

_Envoi._

Prince of this world, high monarch of all those Who deem Reality life’s better part, Herewith I tweak thy crooked royal nose-- Singing of all I carry in my heart.

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH PERRY

When Noe went sailing with his crew And waters covered over the earth, Trees that in Eden-orchard grew Got washed away to Minsterworth.

Now every year they bloom again, (All of the trees spread healthy root) And after Summer’s shine and rain We gather up the blessed fruit;

Whereof we get a heavenly drink (Two rather!) for to make us merry; Oh! Cider’s one, and I do think The name o’ t’other one is Perry!

A GLOUCESTERSHIRE WISH AT EASTERTIDE

Here’s luck, my lads, while Birdlip Hill is steep:-- --As long as Cotswold’s high or Severn’s deep. Our thoughts of you shall blossom and abide While blow the orchards about Severn side:-- --While a round bubble like the children blow, May Hill floats purple in the sunset glow.

Our prayers go up to bless you where you lie, While Gloucester tower stands up against the sky To write old thoughts of loveliness, and trace Dead men’s long living will to give God praise:-- --Who of His mercy doth His Own Son give This blessed morn, that you, and all, may live!

SONG OF THE ROAD

Cheerily upon the road Tramp we all together, Bearing every one his load Through the changeful weather.

To one Hope we all belong, To one Fate a debtor, Songs must cheer our steps along, Mirth the road make better.

Wishes cannot make a horse, Only beggars would ride; We must meet the fairy force In each sombre wood-side.

We must bravely tread the way, Gaily sing together, Till we reach the endless day, Heaven’s golden weather.

PIPER’S WOOD

In Minsterworth when March is in, And Spring begins to gild the days, Oh! then starts up a joyous din, For Piper’s Wood is full of praise, Because the birds deem winter gone And welcome the returning sun.

Blackbird and thrush and robin dear Within that wood try over all The songs they mean to shout so clear Before green leaves grow red and fall; And harkening in its shadows you Must needs sing out of Summer too.

BALLADE OF RIVER SAILING

_The Dorothy_ was very small: a boat Scarce any bigger than the sort one rows With oars! We got her for a five-pound note At second-hand. Yet when the river flows Strong to the sea, and the wind lightly blows, Then see her dancing on the tide, and you’ll Swear she’s the prettiest little craft that goes Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

Bare-footed, push her from the bank afloat, (The soft warm mud comes squelching through your toes!) Scramble aboard: then find an antidote For every care a jaded spirit knows: While round the boat the broken water crows With laughter, casting pretty ridicule On human life and all its little woes, Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

How shall I tell you what the sunset wrote Upon the outspread waters--gold and rose: Or how the white sail of our little boat Looks on a summer sky? The hills enclose With blue solemnity: each white scar shows Clear on the quarried Cotteswolds high and cool. And high and cool a fevered spirit grows Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

_Envoi._

Prince, you have horses: motors, I suppose, As well! At finding pleasure you’re no fool. But have you got a little boat that blows Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool?

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH

_Air_: “_The Vicar of Bray_”

In olden, olden centuries On Gloucester’s holy ground, sir, The monks did pray and chant all day, And grow exceeding round, sir; And here’s the reason that they throve To praise their pleasant fortune, “We keep our beasts”--thus quoth the priests, “In Minsterworth--that’s Mortune!”[1]

_So this is the chorus we will sing, And this is the spot we’ll drink to, While blossom blows and Severn flows, And Earth has mugs to clink to._

Oh! there in sleepy Summer sounds The drowsy drone of bees, sir, And there in Winter paints the sun His patterns ’neath the trees, sir; And there with merry song doth run A river full of fish, sir, That Thursday sees upon the flood And Friday on the dish, sir.

_So this is the chorus we will sing And this is the spot we’ll drink to, While blossom blows and Severn flows, And Earth has mugs to clink to._

The jovial priests to dust are gone, We cannot hear their singing; But still their merry chorus-song From newer lips runs ringing. And we who drink the sunny air And see the blossoms drifting, Will sit and sing the self-same thing Until the roof we’re lifting.

_So this is the chorus we will sing, And this is the spot we’ll drink to, While blossom blows and Severn flows, And Earth has mugs to clink to._

[1] The ancient name of the parish was Mortune--that is, the village in the mere; and the name was changed to Minsterworth early in the fourteenth century because it belonged to the Minster or Abbey of Gloucester, and was the Minster’s “Worth” or farm where the cattle were kept.--F. W. H.

CRICKET: THE CATCH

Whizzing, fierce, it came Down the summer air, Burning like a flame On my fingers bare, And it brought to me As swift--a memory.

Happy days long dead Clear I saw once more. Childhood that is fled:-- Rossall on the shore, Where the sea sobs wild Like a homesick child.

Oh, the blue bird’s fled! Never man can follow. Yet at times instead Comes this scarlet swallow, Bearing on its wings (Where it skims and dips, Gleaming through the slips) Sweet Time-strangled things.

WONDERS

What magic is in common grass To bring this miracle to pass? That within it one should find Salves to give him peace of mind? --It’s very queer that garden weed Should minister to my soul’s need.

What fairy in the falling rain Takes the robin’s small refrain, And twists it to a tiny charm To keep a tempted heart from harm? --It puzzles me a wild bird’s song Should save my soul from doing wrong.

TRIOLET

If Beauty were a mortal thing That died like laughter, grief, and lust, The poet would not need to sing. If Beauty were a mortal thing It would not wound us with its sting. We should lie happy in the dust If Beauty were a mortal thing That died like laughter, grief, and lust.

TRIOLET

Winter has hardened all the ground, But flowers are on the window-pane; No others are there to be found:-- Winter has hardened all the ground. But here, while Earth is bare and bound, Bloom ghosts of those his frost has slain. Winter has hardened all the ground, But flowers are on the window-pane.

WHAT GOD SAID

“This be a lesson,” said Life, with a frown-- And knocked me down. “And serve him right!” cried the goodly men, While I--I picked myself up, and then Went on just as I used to do.

But the good God smiled as He shook His head; “It’s a troublesome child,” said He, “but yet Not quite so altogether dead As those solemn old fools that laughed. Don’t fret!” At least, I think that’s what He said.

TO HIS MAID

Since above Time, upon Eternity The lovely essence of true loving’s set, Time shall not triumph over you and me, Nor--though we pay his debt-- Shall Death hold mastery.

Your eyes are bright for ever. Your dark hair Holds an eternal shade. Like a bright sword Shall flame the vision of your strange sweet ways, Cleaving the years: and even your smallest word, Lying forgotten with the things that were, Shall glow and kindle, burning up the days.

BALLADE OF DAMNABLE THINGS

I do not like a horse to throw me off. I do not like the motor-bike to skid. I do not like a nasty hacking cough, Nor influenza. And I never did Enjoy the thought of frizzling on a grid, The while wee flaming devils dance and sing. But short of simple Hell without the lid, I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

Fleas, faintness, famine, stomach-ache, the feel Of flies upon your face, rats in your bed; Lice, dusty roads, a blister on your heel, The taste of salts, the scent of things long dead, Home-sickness, chilblains, grief uncomforted, A hollow tooth with cold, a hornet sting:-- These are unpleasant, yet when all is said I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

See you the whole bright world before your eye Dwindle as ugly as a wrinkled pea. See Beauty, a pricked bubble: Truth, a lie: Achievement, foam on muddy water. See Yourself a yellow devil suddenly, And all the zest of youth gone journeying-- See you all this, and then you will agree (I think) that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

_Envoi._

Prince of the damned--I ransack my supplies To find a fitting wish at you to fling. Now may you look on Hell through yellow eyes. I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

SONG OF HEALTH

For friends to stand beside, for foes to fight, For devil’s work to break, for Wrong and Right, And will (however hard) to choose between them: For merry tales, no matter where you glean them: Songs, stars, delight of birds, and summer roses, Sunshine, wherein my friend the dog now dozes: Danger--the zest of life, and Love, the lord Of Life and Death: for every open word Spoken in blame or praise by friend o’ mine To spur me on: for old, good memories, Keeping in my soul’s cellar like good wine: For Truth that’s strong, and Beauty so divine: For animals, and children, and for trees, Both wintry-black and blossoming in white: For homely gardens and for humming bees: For drink, and dreams, and daisies on the sod, Plain food, and fire (when it will light)-- Thank God!

GRATITUDE

Grateful--ah, yes! I, who have seen The larches brighten green, The orchard’s Easter dress, And those red thousand poppies, In wheat below the coppice:

I, who (while others lie in graves Of earth, or rocked with waves), Have leave to walk And sing and talk, With golden lads and girls, My friends, To all the farthest ends, Whither Life whirls....

How can I not feel gratitude for this And other bliss, Which God--dear God--hath sent, For my great wonderment?

THE SOLDIER SPEAKS

Within my heart I safely keep, England, what things are yours: Your clouds, and cloud-like flocks of sheep That drift o’er windy moors. Possessing naught, I proudly hold Great hills and little gay Hill-towns set black on sunrise-gold At breaking of the day.

Though unto me you be austere And loveless, darling land; Though you be cold and hard, my dear, And will not understand. Yet have I fought and bled for you, And, by that self-same sign, Still must I love you, yearn to you, England--how truly mine!

A PRESENT FROM FLANDERS

Where dewfall and the moon Make precious things, On every small festoon A spider slings:

Treading--like dead leaves under All drifted days, Happy the lovers wander In Winter ways;

No thought of pain perplexes The peace they hold; No worldly sorrow vexes The lovers. Gold--

All golden gleams the way; How strange such riches Drawn from rough men should be Seven or eight worlds away, Fighting, and carelessly, Dying in ditches!

IF WE RETURN

(_Rondeau_)

If we return, will England be Just England still to you and me? The place where we must earn our bread? We, who have walked among the dead. And watched the smile of agony,

And seen the price of Liberty, Which we have taken carelessly From other hands. Nay, we shall dread, If we return,

Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily The things that men have died to free. Oh, English fields shall blossom red For all the blood that has been shed By men whose guardians are we, If we return.

A PEOPLE RENEWED

Now these like men shall live, And like to princes fall. They take what Fate will give At this great festival.

And since at length they find That life is sweet indeed, They cast it on the wind To serve their country’s need.

See young “Adventure” there (“Make-money-quick” that was) Hurls down his gods that were For Honour and the Cross!

Old “Grab-at-Gold” lies low In Flanders. And again (Because men will it so) England is ruled by Men.

THE AWAKENING

At night, in dream, I saw those fields round home Agleam. Drenched all with dew Beneath day’s newest dome Of gold and blue.

All night-- All night they shone for me, and then Came light. And suddenly I woke, and lovely joy! I was at home, with the fields gold as when I was a boy.

* * * * *

Thus shall all men rise up at last to see, Their dearest dreams golden reality.

THE RETURN

The unimaginable hour That folds away our joys and pain Holds not the spirit in its power. Therefore I shall come home again (Wherever my poor body lies), To whisper in the summer trees Upon a lazy fall and rise Of wind: and in day’s red decline Walk with the sun those roads of mine, Then rosy with my memories.

Though you may see me not, yet hear My laughter in the laughing streams, My footsteps in the running rain.... For sake of all I counted dear And visit still within my dreams I shall at last come home again.

LAND OF HEART’S DELIGHT

Glory’s a temple open wide, Content, a little shrine. But Heart’s Delight is a land so bright We reckon it half divine. It lies wherever man has lived, But wheresoe’er you find it Its skies are blue with dreams come true, And Heaven is just behind it.

Glory’s the universal gleam Of all God gives to men. Content, the little silver dream He sends to one in ten. But Heart’s Delight, all golden bright, Is given to him alone Who has hidden his heart in the deepest part Of a place called Home.

GONNEHEM