Part 6

Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town, Lights out and never a glint o' moon: Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down, Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon. "Oh! if I'd a drum here to make them take the road again, Oh! if I'd a fife to wheedle, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!

"Hey, but here's a toy shop, here's a drum for me, Penny whistles too to play the tune! Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see We're a band!" said the weary big Dragoon. "Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!"

Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night, Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat: Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight With a little penny drum to lift their feet. Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!

As long as there's an Englishman to ask a tale of me, As long as I can tell the tale aright, We'll not forget the penny whistle's wheedle-deedle-dee And the big Dragoon a-beating down the night, Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!

_Henry Newbolt_

THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART

Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of shell and shell His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile which he calls a "Black Maria."

He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all. 'T is then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary.

His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."

He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith--be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.

_Owen Seaman_

_October, 1914_

IN THE TRENCHES

As I lay in the trenches Under the Hunter's Moon, My mind ran to the lenches Cut in a Wiltshire down.

I saw their long black shadows, The beeches in the lane, The gray church in the meadows And my white cottage--plain.

Thinks I, the down lies dreaming Under that hot moon's eye, Which sees the shells fly screaming And men and horses die.

And what makes she, I wonder, Of the horror and the blood, And what's her luck, to sunder The evil from the good?

'T was more than I could compass, For how was I to think With such infernal rumpus In such a blasted stink?

But here's a thought to tally With t'other. That moon sees A shrouded German valley With woods and ghostly trees.

And maybe there's a river As we have got at home With poplar-trees aquiver And clots of whirling foam.

And over there some fellow, A German and a foe, Whose gills are turning yellow As sure as mine are so,

Watches that riding glory Apparel'd in her gold, And craves to hear the story Her frozen lips enfold.

And if he sees as clearly As I do where her shrine Must fall, he longs as dearly. With heart as full as mine.

_Maurice Hewlett_

THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH

Men of the Twenty-first Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food, After a day and a night-- God, shall we ever forget! Beaten and broke in the fight, But sticking it--sticking it yet. Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done, Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun! Northumberland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it--sticking it yet.

Never a message of hope! Never a word of cheer! Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope, With the dull dead plain in our rear. Always the whine of the shell, Always the roar of its burst, Always the tortures of hell, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck and the guns and the _Boche_, When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!" And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!" And the Guards came through.

Our throats they were parched and hot, But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers! Irish and Welsh and Scot, Coldstream and Grenadiers. Two brigades, if you please, Dressing as straight as a hem, We--we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them! Lord, I could speak for a week, But how could you understand! How should _your_ cheeks be wet, Such feelin's don't come to _you_. But when can me or my mates forget, When the Guards came through?

"Five yards left extend!" It passed from rank to rank. Line after line with never a bend, And a touch of the London swank. A trifle of swank and dash, Cool as a home parade, Twinkle and glitter and flash, Flinching never a shade, With the shrapnel right in their face Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Keeping their swing at an easy pace, Arms at the trail, eyes front! Man, it was great to see! Man, it was fine to do! It's a cot and a hospital ward for me, But I'll tell 'em in Blighty, wherever I be, How the Guards came through.

_Arthur Conan Doyle_

THE PASSENGERS OF A RETARDED SUBMERSIBLE

NOVEMBER, 1916

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE: What was it kept you so long, brave German submersible? We have been very anxious lest matters had not gone well With you and the precious cargo of your country's drugs and dyes. But here you are at last, and the sight is good for our eyes, Glad to welcome you up and out of the caves of the sea, And ready for sale or barter, whatever your will may be.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE SUBMERSIBLE: Oh, do not be impatient, good friends of this neutral land, That we have been so tardy in reaching your eager strand. We were stopped by a curious chance just off the Irish coast, Where the mightiest wreck ever was lay crowded with a host Of the dead that went down with her; and some prayed us to bring them here That they might be at home with their brothers and sisters dear. We Germans have tender hearts, and it grieved us sore to say We were not a passenger ship, and to most we must answer nay, But if from among their hundreds they could somehow a half-score choose We thought we could manage to bring them, and we would not refuse. They chose, and the women and children that are greeting you here are those Ghosts of the women and children that the rest of the hundred chose.

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE: What guff are you giving us, Captain? We are able to tell, we hope, A dozen ghosts, when we see them, apart from a periscope. Come, come, get down to business! For time is money, you know, And you must make up in both to us for having been so slow. Better tell this story of yours to the submarines, for we Know there was no such wreck, and none of your spookery.

THE GHOSTS OF THE LUSITANIA WOMEN AND CHILDREN: Oh, kind kin of our murderers, take us back when you sail away; Our own kin have forgotten us. O Captain, do not stay! But hasten, Captain, hasten: The wreck that lies under the sea Shall be ever the home for us this land can never be.

_William Dean Howells_

EDITH CAVELL

She was binding the wounds of her enemies when they came-- The lint in her hand unrolled. They battered the door with their rifle-butts, crashed it in: She faced them gentle and bold.

They haled her before the judges where they sat In their places, helmet on head. With question and menace the judges assailed her, "Yes, I have broken your law," she said.

"I have tended the hurt and hidden the hunted, have done As a sister does to a brother, Because of a law that is greater than that you have made, Because I could do none other.

"Deal as you will with me. This is my choice to the end, To live in the life I vowed." "She is self-confessed," they cried; "she is self-condemned. She shall die, that the rest may be cowed."

In the terrible hour of the dawn, when the veins are cold, They led her forth to the wall. "I have loved my land," she said, "but it is not enough: Love requires of me all.

"I will empty my heart of the bitterness, hating none." And sweetness filled her brave With a vision of understanding beyond the hour That knelled to the waiting grave.

They bound her eyes, but she stood as if she shone. The rifles it was that shook When the hoarse command rang out. They could not endure That last, that defenceless look.

And the officer strode and pistolled her surely, ashamed That men, seasoned in blood, Should quail at a woman, only a woman,-- As a flower stamped in the mud.

And now that the deed was securely done, in the night When none had known her fate, They answered those that had striven for her, day by day: "It is over, you come too late."

And with many words and sorrowful-phrased excuse Argued their German right To kill, most legally; hard though the duty be, The law must assert its might.

Only a woman! yet she had pity on them, The victim offered slain To the gods of fear that they worship. Leave them there, Red hands, to clutch their gain!

She bewailed not herself, and we will bewail her not, But with tears of pride rejoice That an English soul was found so crystal-clear To be triumphant voice

Of the human heart that dares adventure all But live to itself untrue, And beyond all laws sees love as the light in the night, As the star it must answer to.

The hurts she healed, the thousands comforted--these Make a fragrance of her fame. But because she stept to her star right on through death It is Victory speaks her name.

_Laurence Binyon_

THE HELL-GATE OF SOISSONS

My name is Darino, the poet. You have heard? _Oui, Comédie Française_. Perchance it has happened, _mon ami_, you know of my unworthy lays. Ah, then you must guess how my fingers are itching to talk to a pen; For I was at Soissons, and saw it, the death of the twelve Englishmen.

My leg, _malheureusement_, I left it behind on the banks of the Aisne. Regret? I would pay with the other to witness their valor again. A trifle, indeed, I assure you, to give for the honor to tell How that handful of British, undaunted, went into the Gateway of Hell.

Let me draw you a plan of the battle. Here we French and your Engineers stood; Over there a detachment of German sharpshooters lay hid in a wood. A _mitrailleuse_ battery planted on top of this well-chosen ridge Held the road for the Prussians and covered the direct approach to the bridge.

It was madness to dare the dense murder that spewed from those ghastly machines. (Only those who have danced to its music can know what the _mitrailleuse_ means.) But the bridge on the Aisne was a menace; our safety demanded its fall: "Engineers,--volunteers!" In a body, the Royals stood out at the call.

Death at best was the fate of that mission--to their glory not one was dismayed. A party was chosen--and seven survived till the powder was laid. And _they_ died with their fuses unlighted. Another detachment! Again A sortie is made--all too vainly. The bridge still commanded the Aisne.

We were fighting two foes--Time and Prussia--the moments were worth more than troops. We _must_ blow up the bridge. A lone soldier darts out from the Royals and swoops For the fuse! Fate seems with us. We cheer him; he answers--our hopes are reborn! A ball rips his visor--his khaki shows red where another has torn.

Will he live--will he last--will he make it? _Hélas!_ And so near to the goal! A second, he dies! then a third one! A fourth! Still the Germans take toll! A fifth, _magnifique_! It is magic! How does he escape them? He may.... Yes, he _does_! See, the match flares! A rifle rings out from the wood and says "Nay!"

Six, seven, eight, nine take their places, six, seven, eight, nine brave their hail; Six, seven, eight, nine--how we count them! But the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth fail! A tenth! _Sacré nom!_ But these English are soldiers--they know how to try; (He fumbles the place where his jaw was)--they show, too, how heroes can die.

Ten we count--ten who ventured unquailing--ten there were--and ten are no more! Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before. God of Battles, look down and protect him! Lord, his heart is as Thine-- let him live! But the _mitrailleuse_ splutters and stutters, and riddles him into a sieve.

Then I thought of my sins, and sat waiting the charge that we could not withstand. And I thought of my beautiful Paris, and gave a last look at the land, At France, my _belle France_, in her glory of blue sky and green field and wood. Death with honor, but never surrender. And to die with such men--it was good.

They are forming--the bugles are blaring--they will cross in a moment and then.... When out of the line of the Royals (your island, _mon ami_, breeds men) Burst a private, a tawny-haired giant--it was hopeless, but, _ciel!_ how he ran! _Bon Dieu_ please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan!

No cheers from our ranks, and the Germans, they halted in wonderment too; See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! I am dreaming, it _cannot_ be true. Screams of rage! _Fusillade!_ They have killed him! Too late though, the good work is done. By the valor of twelve English martyrs, the Hell-Gate of Soissons is won!

_Herbert Kaufman_

THE VIRGIN OF ALBERT

(NOTRE DAME DE BREBIÈRES)

Shyly expectant, gazing up at Her, They linger, Gaul and Briton, side by side: Death they know well, for daily have they died, Spending their boyhood ever bravelier; They wait: here is no priest or chorister, Birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified; Desolate, empty, is the Eastertide, Yet still they wait, watching the Babe and Her.

Broken, the Mother stoops: the brutish foe Hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down She swayed, Down, till She saw the toiling swarms below,-- Platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed: "Women are woe for them! let Me be theirs, And comfort them, and hearken all their prayers!"

_George Herbert Clarke_

RETREAT

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat Across the stifling leagues of southern plain, Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain, Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet And dusty smother of the August heat, He dreamt of flowers in an English lane, Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet.

All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet-- The innocent names kept up a cool refrain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet, Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain, Until he babbled like a child again-- "All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet."

_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_

A LETTER FROM THE FRONT

I was out early to-day, spying about From the top of a haystack--such a lovely morning-- And when I mounted again to canter back I saw across a field in the broad sunlight A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along With a rook-rifle held at the ready, and--would you believe it?-- A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.

So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, And wished him "Good sport!"--and then I remembered My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies By hunting and shooting." But he stood and saluted And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon, Sir, I was only going out to shoot a sparrow To feed my cat with." So there was the whole picture, The lovely early morning, the occasional shell Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape,-- Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting, And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement.

I may be wrong, and I may have told it badly, But it struck _me_ as being extremely ludicrous.

_Henry Newbolt_

RHEIMS CATHEDRAL--1914

A wingèd death has smitten dumb thy bells, And poured them molten from thy tragic towers: Now are the windows dust that were thy flower Patterned like frost, petalled like asphodels. Gone are the angels and the archangels, The saints, the little lamb above thy door, The shepherd Christ! They are not, any more, Save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells.

But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom That old divine insistence of the sea, When music flows along the sculptured stone In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom Like faithful sunset, warm immortally! Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone!

_Grace Hazard Conkling_

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH....

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air-- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath-- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 't were better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear.... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.

_Alan Seeger_

THE SOLDIER

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

_Rupert Brooke_

EXPECTANS EXPECTAVI

From morn to midnight, all day through, I laugh and play as others do, I sin and chatter, just the same As others with a different name.

And all year long upon the stage, I dance and tumble and do rage So vehemently, I scarcely see The inner and eternal me.

I have a temple I do not Visit, a heart I have forgot, A self that I have never met, A secret shrine--and yet, and yet

This sanctuary of my soul Unwitting I keep white and whole, Unlatched and lit, if Thou should'st care To enter or to tarry there.

With parted lips and outstretched hands And listening ears Thy servant stands, Call Thou early, call Thou late, To Thy great service dedicate.

_Charles Hamilton Sorley_

_May, 1915_

THE VOLUNTEER

Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent Toiling at ledgers in a city grey, Thinking that so his days would drift away With no lance broken in life's tournament: Yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes The gleaming eagles of the legions came, And horsemen, charging under phantom skies, Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme.

And now those waiting dreams are satisfied; From twilight to the halls of dawn he went; His lance is broken; but he lies content With that high hour, in which he lived and died. And falling thus he wants no recompense, Who found his battle in the last resort; Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence, Who goes to join the men of Agincourt.

_Herbert Asquith_

INTO BATTLE

The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight; And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run, And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth.

All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges' end.

The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing."

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy-of-Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind,

Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will.

The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

_Julian Grenfell_

_Flanders, April, 1915_

THE CRICKETERS OF FLANDERS

The first to climb the parapet With "cricket balls" in either hand; The first to vanish in the smoke Of God-forsaken No Man's Land; First at the wire and soonest through, First at those red-mouthed hounds of hell, The Maxims, and the first to fall,-- They do their bit and do it well.

Full sixty yards I've seen them throw With all that nicety of aim They learned on British cricket-fields. Ah, bombing is a Briton's game! Shell-hole to shell-hole, trench, to trench, "Lobbing them over" with an eye As true as though it _were_ a game And friends were having tea close by.

Pull down some art-offending thing Of carven stone, and in its stead Let splendid bronze commemorate These men, the living and the dead. No figure of heroic size, Towering skyward like a god; But just a lad who might have stepped From any British bombing squad.

His shrapnel helmet set atilt, His bombing waistcoat sagging low, His rifle slung across his back: Poised in the very act to throw. And let some graven legend tell Of those weird battles in the West Wherein he put old skill to use, And played old games with sterner zest.

Thus should he stand, reminding those In less-believing days, perchance, How Britain's fighting cricketers Helped bomb the Germans out of France. And other eyes than ours would see; And other hearts than ours would thrill; And others say, as we have said: "A sportsman and a soldier still!"

_James Norman Hall_

"ALL THE HILLS AND VALES ALONG"

All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping.

Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath. For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour.