Part 8
I think I hear you saying, "Not so much Of waving palm-trees and the flight of years; It's evident that you are out of touch With war as managed by the Engineers. Hot blasts of _sherki_ are our daily treat, And toasted sandhills full of Johnny Turk And almost anything that looks like work, And thirst and flies and marches that would irk A cast-iron soldier with asbestos feet."
Know, then, the thought was fathered by the wish We oldsters feel, that you and everyone Who through the heat and flies conspire to dish The "_Drang nach Osten_" of the beastly Hun Shall win their strenuous virtue's modest wage. And if at Nishapur and Babylon The cup runs dry, we'll fill it later on, And here where Cherwell soothes the fretful don In flowing sherbet pledge our easeful sage.
C. H. BRETHERTON. June 6, 1917.
By the Canal in Flanders
By the canal in Flanders I watched a barge's prow Creep slowly past the poplar-trees; and there I made a vow That when these wars are over and I am home at last However much I travel I shall not travel fast.
Horses and cars and yachts and planes: I've no more use for such: For in three years of war's alarms I've hurried far too much; And now I dream of something sure, silent and slow and large; So when the War is over--why, I mean to buy a barge.
A gilded barge I'll surely have, the same as Egypt's Queen, And it will be the finest barge that ever you have seen; With polished mast of stout pitch pine, tipped with a ball of gold, And two green trees in two white tubs placed just abaft the hold.
So when past Pangbourne's verdant meads, by Clieveden's mossy stems, You see a barge all white-and-gold come gliding down the Thames, With tow-rope spun from coloured silks and snow-white horses three, Which stop beside your river house--you'll know the bargee's me.
I'll moor my craft beside your lawn; so up and make good cheer! Pluck me your greenest salads! Draw me your coolest beer! For I intend to lunch with you and talk an hour or more Of how we used to hustle in the good old days of war.
NORMAN DAVEY. Sept. 5, 1917.
A Watch in the Night
"Watchmen, what of the night?" "Rumours clash from the towers; The clocks strike different hours; The vanes point different ways. Through darkness leftward and right Voices quaver and boom, Pealing our victory's praise, Tolling the tocsin of doom."
"Optimist, what of the night?" "Night is over and gone; See how the dawn marches on, Triumphing, over the hills. Armies of foemen in flight Scatter dismay and despair, Wild is the terror that fills War-lords that crouch in their lair."
"Pessimist, what of the night?" "Blackness that walls us about; The last little star has gone out, Whelmed in the wrath of the storm. Exhaustless, resistless in might, The enemy faints not nor fails; Thundering, swarm upon swarm, He sweeps like a flood through the vales.
"Pacifist, what of the night?" "We hear the thunder afar, But all is still where we are; Good and evil are friends. Here in the passionless height War and morality cease, And the noon with the midnight blends In perennial twilight of peace."
H. E. WILKES. Feb. 6, 1918.
The Windmill
A SONG of VICTORY.
Yes, it was all like a garden glowing When first we came to the hill-top there, And we laughed to know that the Bosch was going, And laughed to know that the land was fair; Acre by acre of green fields sleeping, Hamlets hid in the tufts of wood, And out of the trees were church-towers peeping, And away on a hillock the Windmill stood.
_Then, ah then, 'twas a land worth winning, And now there is naught but the naked clay, But I can remember the Windmill spinning, And the four sails shone in the sun that day._
But the guns came after and tore the hedges And stripped the spinneys and churned the plain, And a man walks now on the windy ledges And looks for a feather of green in vain; Acre by acre the sad eye traces The rust-red bones of the earth laid bare, And the sign-posts stand in the market-places To say that a village was builded there.
_But better the French fields stark and dying Than ripe for a conqueror's fat content, And I can remember the mill-sails flying, Yet I cheered with the rest when the Windmill went._
Away to the East the grass-land surges Acre by acre across the line, And we must go on till the end like scourges, Though the wilderness stretch from sea to Rhine; But I dream some days of a great reveille, When the buds shall burst in the Blasted Wood, And the children chatter in Death-Trap Alley, And a windmill stand where the Windmill stood.
_And we that remember the Windmill spinning. We may go under, but not in vain, For our sons shall come in the new beginning And see that the Windmill spins again._
A. P. HERBERT. April 10, 1918.
The Return
Into the home-side wood, the long straight aisle of pines, I turned with a slower step than ever my youth-time knew; Dusk was gold in the valley, grey in the deep-cut chines, And below, like a dream afloat, was the quiet sea's fading blue.
Oh, it was joy to see the still night folding down Over the simple fields I loved, saved by the sacred dead, Playmates and friends of mine, brothers in camp and town, The loyal hearts that leapt at the word that England said.
I paused by the cross-roads' sign, for a tinkling sound rang clear, The small sharp sound of a bell away up the western road; And presently out of the mist, with clank and clatter of gear, Rumbled the carrier's cart with its tilt and its motley load:--
The old grey horse that moved in the misty headlight's gleam, The carrier crouched on his seat, with the bellboy perched astride, Voices from under the tilt, and laughter--was it a dream, Or was I awake and alive, standing there by the cross-roads' side?
So I came to the village street where glinting lights shone fair, The little homely lights that make the glad tears start; And I knew that one was yearning and waiting to welcome me there, She that is mother in blood and steadfast comrade in heart.
Oh, but my youth swept back like the tide to a thirsty shore, Or the little wind at dawn that heralds the wash of rain; And I ran, I ran, with a song in my heart to the unlatched door, I returned to the gentle breast that had nursed me--a boy again!
C. KENNETH BURROW. Dec. 18, 1918.
Good-Bye, Australians
Through the Channel's drift and toss Swift your homing transports churn; Soon for you the Southron Cross High above your bows shall burn; Soon beyond the rolling Bight Gleam the Leeuwin's lance of light.
Rich reward your hearts shall hold, None less dear if long delayed, For with gifts of wattle-gold Shall your country's debt be paid; From her sunlight's golden store She shall heal your hurts of war.
Ere the mantling Channel mist Dim your distant decks and spars, And your flag that victory kissed And Valhalla hung with stars-- Crowd and watch our signal fly: "Gallant hearts, good-bye! _Good-bye!_"
W. H. OGILVIE. Jan. 15, 1919.
The Belfries
If you should go to La Bassée Or Bethune, grey and bare, You'll hear the sweetest bells that play A faint and chiming air; And belfries in each little town Sing out the hour and mark it down.
If you should go to La Bassée Or walk the Bethune street You'll see the lorries pass that way And hear the tramp of feet; And where the road with trees is lined You'll watch the long battalions wind.
But all the clocks that mark the time Are months and years too slow, And all the bells that ring and chime Strike hours of long ago, And all the belfries where you pass Lie tumbled in the dust and grass.
Yet still the long battalions wind. Though all the men are gone, Because one hour has stayed behind And wanders there alone-- Yes, one heroic shining hour Chimes on from every fallen tower.
MRS. A. P. TROTTER. Aug. 27, 1919.
Saturdays
Now has the soljer handed in his pack, And "Peace on earth, goodwill to all" been sung; I've got a pension and my ole job back-- Me, with my right leg gawn and half a lung; But, Lord! I'd give my bit o' buckshee pay And my gratuity in honest Brads To go down to the field nex' Saturday And have a game o' football with the lads.
It's Saturdays as does it. In the week It's not too bad; there's cinemas and things; But I gets up against it, so to speak, When half-day-off comes round again and brings The smell o' mud an' grass an' sweating men Back to my mind--there's no denying it; There ain't much comfort tellin' myself then, "Thank Gawd, I went _toot sweet_ an' did my bit!"
Oh, yes, I knows I'm lucky, more or less; There's some pore blokes back there who played the game Until they heard the whistle go, I guess, For Time an' Time eternal. All the same It makes me proper down at heart and sick To see the lads go laughing off to play; I'd sell my bloomin' soul to have a kick-- But what's the good of talkin', anyway?
E. W. PIGOTT. Jan. 28, 1920.
_Sea-Scape_
The North Sea Ground
Oh, Grimsby is a pleasant town as any man may find, An' Grimsby wives are thrifty wives, an' Grimsby girls are kind, An' Grimsby lads were never yet the lads to lag behind When there's men's work doin' on the North Sea ground.
An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the high tide's flowin', An' off the misty waters a cold wind blowin'; Skipper's come aboard, an' it's time that we were goin', An' there's fine fish waitin' on the North Sea ground.
Soles in the Silver Pit--an' there we'll let 'em lie; Cod on the Dogger--oh, we'll fetch 'em by-an'-by; War on the water--an' it's time to serve an' die, For there's wild work doin' on the North Sea ground.
An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" they want you at the trawlin' (With your long sea-boots and your tarry old tarpaulin'); All across the bitter seas duty comes a-callin' In the Winter's weather off the North Sea ground.
It's well we've learned to laugh at fear--the sea has taught us how; It's well we've shaken hands with death--we'll not be strangers now, With death in every climbin' wave before the trawler's bow, An' the black spawn swimmin' on the North Sea ground.
Good luck to all our fightin' ships that rule the English sea; Good luck to our brave merchantmen wherever they may be; The sea it is their highway, an' we've got to sweep it free For the ships passin' over on the North Sea ground.
An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the sea wind's crying; "Time an' time to go where the herrin' gulls are flyin';" An' down below the stormy seas the dead men lyin', Oh, the dead lying quiet on the North Sea ground!
MISS C. FOX SMITH. March 24, 1915.
The Ballad of the Resurrection Packet
Oh, she's in from the deep water, she's safe in port once more, With shot 'oles in the funnel which were not there before; Yes, she's 'ome, dearie, 'ome, an' we've 'alf the sea inside! Ought to 'ave sunk, but she couldn't if she tried.
An' it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she'll bring us 'ome some day, Rollin' both rails under in the old sweet way, Freezin' in the foul weather, fryin' in the fine, The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"
If she'd been built for sinkin' she'd have done it long ago; She's tried her best in every sea an' all the winds that blow, In hurricanes at Galveston, pamperos off the Plate, An' icy Cape 'Orn snorters which freeze you while you wait.
She's been ashore at Vallipo, Algoa Bay likewise, She's broke her screw-shaft off Cape Race an' stove 'er bows in ice, She's lost 'er deck-load overboard an' 'alf 'er bulwarks too, An' she's come in with fire aboard, smokin' like a flue.
But it's "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she gets there just the same, Reekin', leakin', 'alf a wreck, scarred an' stove an' lame; Patch 'er up with putty, lads, tie 'er up with twine, The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"
A bit west the Scillies the sky was stormy red, "To-night we'll lift Saint Agnes Light if all goes well," we said, But we met a slinkin' submarine as dark was comin' down, An' she ripped our rotten plates away an' left us there to drown.
A bit west the Scillies we thought her sure to sink, There was 'alf a gale blowin', the sky was black as ink, The seas begun to mount an' the wind begun to thunder, An' every wave that come, oh, we thought 'twould roll 'er under.
But it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, an' she'll get there after all, Steamin' when she can steam, an' when she can't she'll crawl; This year, next year--rain or storm or shine-- The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"
We thought about the bulk-'eads--we wondered if they'd last, An' the cook 'e started groanin' an' repentin' of the past; But thinkin' an' groanin', oh, they wouldn't shift the water, So we got the pumps a-workin' same as British seamen oughter.
If she'd been a crack liner she'd 'ave gone like a stone, An' why she didn't sink is a thing as can't be known; Our arms was made of lead, our backs was split with achin', But we pumped 'er into port just before the day was breakin'!
For it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she'll bring us 'ome some day,-- Don't you 'ear the pumps a-clankin' in the old sweet way?-- This year, next year--rain or storm or shine-- She's the resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!"
MISS C. FOX SMITH. Nov. 3, 1915.
The Figure-Head
A SALT SEA YARN.
There was an ancient carver that carved of a saint, But the parson wouldn't have it, so he took a pot of paint And changed its angel garment for a dashing soldier rig, And said it was a figure-head and sold it to a brig.
The brig hauled her mainsail to an off-shore draught, Then she shook her snowy royals and the Scillies went abaft; And cloudy with her canvas she ran before the Trade Till she got to the Equator, where she struck a merrymaid.
A string of pearls and conches were all of her togs, But the flying-fish and porpoises they followed her like dogs; She had a voice of silver and lips of coral red, She climbed the dolphin-striker and kissed the figure-head.
Then every starry evening she'd swim in the foam About the bows, a-singing like a nightingale at Home; She'd call to him and sing to him as sweetly as a bird, But the wooden-headed effigy he never said a word.
And every starry evening in the Doldrum calms She'd wriggle up the bobstay and throw her tender arms About his scarlet shoulders and fondle him and cry And stroke his curly whiskers, but he never winked an eye.
She couldn't get an answer to her tears or moans, So she went and told her daddy, told the ancient Davy Jones; Old Davy damned his eyesight and puzzled of his wits, Then whistled up his hurricanes and tore the brig to bits.
Down on the ocean-bed, green fathoms deep, Where the wrecks lie rotting and great sea-serpents creep, In a gleaming grotto all built of sailors' bones, Sits the handsome figure-head, listening to Miss Jones.
Songs o' love she sings him the livelong day, And she hangs upon his bosom and sobs the night away, But he never, never answers, for beneath his soldier paint The wooden-headed lunatic still thinks that he's a saint.
CROSBIE GARSTIN. July 26, 1916.
The Little Ships
["The small steamer ---- struck a mine yesterday and sank. The crew perished."--Daily Paper.]
Who to the deep in ships go down Great marvels do behold, But comes the day when some must drown In the grey sea and cold. For galleons lost great bells do toll, But now must we implore God's ear for sunken Little Ships Who are not heard of more.
When ships of war put out to sea They go with guns and mail, That so the chance may equal be Should foemen them assail; But Little Ships men's errands run And are not clad for strife; God's mercy then on Little Ships Who cannot fight for life.
To warm and cure, to clothe and feed, They stoutly put to sea, And since that men of them had need Made light of jeopardy; Each in her hour her fate did meet Nor flinched nor made outcry; God's love be with these Little Ships Who could not choose but die.
To friar and nun, and every one Who lives to save and tend, Sisters were these whose work is done And cometh thus to end; Full well they knew what risk they ran But still were strong to give; God's grace for all the Little Ships Who died that men might live.
C. HILTON BROWN. Sept. 20, 1916.
The Lone Hand
She took her tide and she passed the Bar with the first o' the morning light; She dipped her flag to the coast patrol at the coming down of the night; She has left the lights of the friendly shore and the smell of the English land, And she's somewhere South o' the Fastnet now-- God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now, Playing her own lone hand.
She is ugly and squat as a ship can be, she was new when the Ark was new, But she takes her chance and she runs her risk as well as the best may do; And it's little she heeds the lurking death and little she gets of fame, Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now-- God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now, Playing her own lone game.
She has played it once, she has played it twice, she has played it times a score; Her luck and her pluck are the two trump cards that have won her the game before; And life is the stake where the tin fish run and Death is the dealer's name, Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now-- God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now, Playing her own lone game.
MISS C. FOX SMITH. Jan. 2, 1918.
A Dream Ship
Oh I wish I had a clipper ship with carvings on her counter, With lanterns on her poop-rail of beaten copper wrought; I would dress her like a lady in the whitest cloth and mount her With a long bow-chasing swivel and a gun at every port.
I would sign me on a master who had solved MERCATOR'S riddle, A nigger cook with earrings who neither chewed nor drank, Who wore a red bandanna and was handy on the fiddle, I would take a piping bos'un and a cabin-boy to spank.
Then some fine Summer morning when the Falmouth cocks were crowing I would set my capstan spinning to the chanting of all hands, And the milkmaids on the uplands would lament to see me going As I beat for open Channel and away to foreign lands, _Singing--_ Fare ye well, O lady mine, Fare ye well, my pretty one, For the anchor's at the cat-head and the voyage is begun, The wind is in the mainsail, we're slipping from the land Hull-down with all sail making, close-hauled with the white-tops breaking, Bound for the Rio Grande. Fare ye well!
With the flying-fish around us and a porpoise school before us, Full crowded under royals to the south'ard we would sweep; We would hear the bull whales blowing and the mermaids sing in chorus, And perhaps the white seal mummies hum their chubby calves to sleep.
We would see the hot towns paddling in the surf of Spanish waters, And prowl beneath dim balconies and twang discreet guitars, And sigh our adoration to Don Juan's lovely daughters Till they lifted their mantillas and their dark eyes shone like stars.
We would cruise by fairy islands where the gaudy parrot screeches And the turtle in his soup-tureen floats basking in the calms; We would see the fire-flies winking in the bush above the beaches And a moon of honey yellow drifting up behind the palms.
We would crown ourselves with garlands and tread a frolic measure With the nut-brown island beauties in the firelight by the huts; We would give them rum and kisses; we would hunt for pirate treasure, And bombard the apes with pebbles in exchange for coco-nuts.
When we wearied of our wand'rings 'neath the blazing Southern heaven And dreamed of Kentish orchards fragrant-scented after rain, Of the cream there is in Cornwall and the cider brewed in Devon, We would crowd our yards with canvas and sweep foaming home again, _Singing--_ Cheerily, O lady mine, Cheerily, my sweetheart true, For the blest Blue Peter's flying and I'm rolling home to you; For I'm tired of Spanish ladies and of tropic afterglows, Heart-sick for an English Spring-time, all afire for an English ring-time, In love with an English rose. Rolling home!
CROSBIE GARSTIN. Jan. 17, 1917.
The Voyage of H.M.S. _President_
A DREAM
[Mr. Punch means no disrespect to H.M.S. _President_, which, being moored in the Thames off Bouverie Street, he has always looked upon as his guardship, but he has often wondered what would happen if only a few thousands of the officers and men borne on her books were to issue from the Admiralty and elsewhere--but especially from the Admiralty--and go on board their ship; hence the disquieting dream that follows.]
It was eighteen bells in the larboard watch with a neap-tide running free, And a gale blew out of the Ludgate Hills when the _President_ put to sea; An old mule came down Bouverie Street to give her a helping hand, And I didn't think much of the ship as such, but the crew was something grand.
The bo'sun stood on a Hoxton bus and blew the Luncheon Call, And the ship's crew came from the four wide winds, but chiefly from Whitehall; They came like the sand on a wind-swept strand, like shots from a Maxim gun, And the old mule stood with the tow-rope on and said, "It can't be done."
With a glitter of wiggly braid they came, with a clatter of forms and files, The little A.P.'s they swarmed like bees, the Commodores stretched for miles; Post-Captains came with hats in flame, and Admirals by the ell, And which of the lot was the biggest pot there was never a man could tell.
They choked the staggering quarter-deck and did the thing no good; They hung like tars on the mizzen-spars (or those of the crowd that could); Far out of view still streamed the queue when the moke said, "Well, I'm blowed If I'll compete with the 'ole damn Fleet," and he pushed off down the road.
And the great ship she sailed after him, though the Lord knows how she did, With her gunwales getting a terrible wetting and a brace of her stern sheets hid, When up and spoke a sailor-bloke and he said, "It strikes me queer, And I've sailed the sea in the R.N.V. this five-and forty year;
"But a ship as can't 'old 'arf 'er crew, why, what sort of a ship is 'er? And oo's in charge of the pore old barge if dangers do occur? And I says to you, I says, "'Eave to, until this point's agreed';" And some said, "Why?" and the rest, "Ay, ay," but the mule he paid no heed.
So the old beast hauled and the Admirals bawled and the crew they fought like cats, And the ship went dropping along past Wapping and down by the Plumstead Flats; But the rest of the horde that wasn't aboard they trotted along the bank, Or jumped like frogs from the Isle of Dogs, or fell in the stream and sank.