Part 2

And you will tell how Birchall fell as calm as on parade, How on they bore amid the roar in that wild charge they made, Where Julien's wood in moonlight stood when midnight met the morn. Tell how they died, my brave, my pride, on that field battle torn.

They went not forth for gain or gold, 'twas not for such they died. They fought for right 'gainst armed might that covenants defied. Pure was their quest, to serve the best, their banner they unfurled For that high plan, the rights of man, the freedom of the world.

The feet that press'd my ample breast, the eyes that loved my pines, Will know no more my welcome shore, but still their glory shines. Sing, troubadour, let thy song soar, sing with a voice divine Of how they saved the day and braved the despot of the Rhine.

"SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE"

Oh, everywhere the women wait for men "somewhere in France"; They wait the postman's passing step, they watch with eager glance; They watch and wait to know their fate, with anxious hearts in pain, The seas are wide and, woe betide, they may not come again.

Oh, postman on your daily round, what message do you bring From them who fight in foreign lands for country and for king? And is it glad or is it sad, that missive's written page, Postmarked from France where men advance and frightful battles rage?

"Somewhere in France" in nowhere land, there is no mark at all To tell them where their dear ones fight or where their loved ones fall; But this must be in war, you see, and so they bravely wait, Some mother in her quiet room, some sweetheart by the gate.

They may not know the bitter truth, they have enough to bear, And well it is they may not know the things that happen there. God keep the brave across the wave who fight for more than lives, And bless them, too, the women true, the sweethearts, mothers, wives.

And yet we know their sacrifice, and know they'd gladly share The wounds and pain of those who fight their battles over there. 'Tis theirs to bear the secret care more deadly than the blow, The nameless pain and heavy chains that only women know.

They may not with their loved ones march with brave and buoyant tread, They may not close their dying eyes, nor weep above their dead. 'Tis theirs to give and wait and live, 'tis theirs to love and bear The cross for those whose life-blood flows afar in France,--Somewhere.

And love is such a wondrous thing that when its sacred flame Burns in a woman's heart, she learns what language may not name. It pales all blooms, it light illumes, the angel's wing outgilds, And makes the sod a court of God, and earth to heaven builds.

Touch with such flame the hearts, O God! of waiting women here, And may its light leap o'er the land and gleam in every tear That women shed for lovers dead, by war's unholy hands, And bring surcease of pain, and peace to this and all the lands.

LINES TO GREECE

Hellas to Eastward flames the war apace, Along the hills of Macedon and Thrace. Time marches onward, hand in hand with Fate. Awake, awake, ere yet it be too late.

Hellas, arise; Thou wert not wont to lie Prone, while the conflict light'ned in thy sky. Land of the Muse, if memory thee inspires, Wake, and with freedom strike as did thy sires.

The monuments that mount thy marble peaks, Surely from these some voice heroic speaks. Thy place is in the vanguard of the free, And comrade of the Turk thou canst not be.

Around thee, Greece, the tide of battle swells From Serbia southward to the Dardanelles. While from the Rhine the Siren thee beguiles, Brooding meanwhile enslavement of thine isles.

The Bulgar thunders on thy hilly flanks, The Turk, Hun-bought, arrays his crimsoned ranks, And fresh from slaughter where Armenia cowers, Lifts praise to Allah as on thee he lowers.

Joyous the memory of thy ancient power, Golden thy lyrics and thy martial dower, Proud was thy form when Greatness thee attired, When Homer sang and Phidias inspired.

Hast thou forgotten one of Saxon strain? Canst thou remember Byron and refrain? His was the voice that waked the God in thee, And his the race that wrought to make thee free.

Remember still how wise Ulysses chose, When from the deep the dulcet chant arose, Now be thy soul, O Greece, with wisdom strong! Reject not Orpheus for the Siren's song.

Where chooseth Greece, while moves the dark intrigue, Where Progress beckons or where despots league? Each hour supine promotes oppression's goal, Betrays mankind, and tarnishes thy soul.

IRELAND

Harp of my country, I tune thee with gladness, Now thy wild song all my being o'erfills, Lifting my soul from its memories of sadness, Flooding with joy as it vibrates and thrills.

Fame's on the wing and death's in the valleys, War's on the world and Freedom's the prize, Who, with head high, marches on with the Allies, Ireland, 'tis she, with her glorified eyes.

Guiding her sons where the onset is fiercest, Fearless of death, how she leads them along, And where she rides, her mighty lance piercest, As she sings the wild chant of the Celt's battle song.

Rangers of Connaught and Fusileers famous, Irishmen all from the North to Dunloe, Paddy and Michael and Terry and Shamus, Oh, what a name they've made fighting the foe!

Down in the Balkans, in France, or in Flanders, No matter where, sure 'tis ever the same, Whether as privates or Marshal Commanders, Ever on Ireland they've shed deathless fame.

Song of the Allies, sure that's "Tipperary", Whose armies march to the lilt of that song. Who thrilled the world? sure 'twas Michael O'Leary! Irish,--the lad could to none else belong.

Oh, the long wait, now the blest vindication, Ireland, asthore, smile again, 'tis the dawn; Lo--on thy banners, see, Ireland a Nation, The cloud has been lifted, the darkness is gone!

KISMET

IN MEMORY OF THE DEATH OF LORD KITCHENER

The Sea has garnered what the Land would keep, The Orkneys' brine enshrouds him in its gloom. Unphrased, mysterious, he sank to sleep In ocean deeps that darken o'er his tomb. What message sealed his dead and sphinx-like lips Up from his great heart, yearning to be told, While strained in agony the stricken ship Amid that wilderness of waters cold? Methought while death's tubed menace sped the waves The Sea exultant cried from vengeful crests, "Him take I captive to my sombre caves, For my lost Nelson, whom the land invests; It prisons still my noblest sailor son, So from the Land I take its peerless one."

He planned in continents and Empire hewed, Moulding from out the waste an ordered world, Striding a bronzed Colossus, grim and rude, O'er Afric veldt and Egypt's sands, storm-swirled, Pressing Imperial-purposed, to his goal; Before, his country's high and luminous star, He on her altar laid his splendid soul. Bequeathed in martyrdom of glorious war.

Beside the Cyprus hills or Nubian sands, By Libya's stony, terraced, huge plateau, Within the trackless silence, "what commands!" Whispered the Sphinx, his ear alone to know. What portents shaped the wild sirocco's rage Where Memnon tunes across the plain at dawn? Saw he the vast armies of the west engage In strife stupendous, in those days agone, When by the Nile he conquered at Khartoum? Saw he unmoved the vision of his doom?

With his high fame and liberty secure, He rests, his task gigantic, nobly done. Born for the ages, ever to endure, He would not pass were victory not won. Behold the prodigy he reared!--arrayed, The millions surging to his trumpet voice Proclaim the triumph that his genius laid. Be brave, my England; it is well, rejoice! Like Egypt's temples towering he stands Amid the crumbling nations, battle-strewn, Shadowing times, shifting war-duned sands, Prodigious, silent, sombre, and immune.

THE CRIMSON YEAR

CHRISTMAS, 1916

From Riga southward to the Horn, fierce beats the iron hail, Beneath the Pole Star and the Cross, war's Vampire rides the gale. Across earth's shaken palisades, the red sirocco blows From sand of Suez in the south to Yukon's northern snows.

And who are these who sally forth--these million doomed to die, Where scarred between embattled hordes, the scalped hills bloody lie, Sons of the mothers of the world, each sworn to overwhelm Legions of men of many climes, from city, farm, and realm.

Sons of the mothers of the Earth, who out of love were born, Go forth in majesty of health and come back maimed and torn. Caught in the whirlpool of the war, all raging, battle-swirled, Boiling and reeling, bloody-foamed, labours the frenzied world.

Who dare cry peace where all is strife; Who bid the conflict cease? Who dares to kneel beside the crib which thrones the Prince of Peace? Behold! it is the Christmas time, the feast of Him divine; How shall we stand with stained hands, and worship at His shrine?

From Verdun's hero-hallowed heights to Belgium's sea-swept dunes, The land with shell-ripped bosom lifts His temples, heaped in ruins. What gory harvests here are reaped, of human flesh and bone, Christ, in thy Christmas time, forgive! Who shall for these atone?

The Serbian hills lie bleak and bare, their people fled or slain; And through the Iron Gate the storm sweeps the Wallachian plain; And twice ten thousand thundering guns hurl forth their screaming shells, Till Europe seems a place accurst with all its flaming hells.

There is no respite on the land--no safety on the deep, Where like a school of famished sharks the gaunt subs vigil keep; While overhead, like vultures huge, the pinioned airships fly, Wheeling their courses, seeking prey across the glowering sky.

The sky where once His herald glowed, that ushered in His reign, The earth which hushed to hear of Peace in sweet, seraphic strain, The water which in olden days, storm-tossed, obeyed His will, The earth, the waters, and the sky--His--now men mould to kill.

Like human gophers burrowing, whole armies sap and mine, And foul beneath the winds of God, proud humans rot as swine, And crimson with the blood of men the streams their courses run:-- God in this Christmas hour forgive! How shall we greet Thy Son?

The rocket's glare shall greet His eyes, the tumult breaks His rest, And He, the King, shall sorrowed cling unto His mother's breast; The battle's smoke His star shall dim, the song the angels sing Shall pass unheard; thus men at war shall greet their Lord and King.

What of the future and mankind while Christian, Christian slays? How shall we dream of better things amid these saddened days? There sounds, derisive, from the East, the laughing Pagan lands, "Go back, false prophets of the Christ, with blood upon your hands."

Behind their Eastern barriers as tigers wait their prey, The little bead-eyed yellow men sit dreaming of their Day, When crippled Europe, on a crutch, shall cringe before their power, And, chained with broken sword, renounce two thousand years of dower.

GRIT AND TORY

The petty feuds of life depart when roll the Nation's drums, And common dangers shared remolds, and strength from union comes. We lived divided in our town, He up the street where I lived down, And when we met we used to frown, For we were Grit and Tory. But that was in the yesterdays; Then something came to change our ways; I'll tell for you the story.

I used to think I hated him, I felt he hated me, Before the Call of Duty came and took us o'er the sea, For I was Grit unto the core, And he was Tory double-bore; In three campaigns we fought it o'er, In battles sometimes gory. For prejudice is rooted deep, And folk sometimes lose precious sleep, Because they're Grit and Tory.

It used to be our loudest boast and proudest to relate, That we were always party men and always voted straight; And he who holds his cause as right, Is seldom too darn proud to fight, And so we fought with all our might Just like two common bruisers; But that was in the olden days, E'er something came to change our ways, And make us saner hoosiers.

Full sudden came the King's appeal, a call for volunteers, That stirred the fighting blood of us who rowed for many years; Then Bill enlisted and I too, Since there was fighting still to do, Went o'er the ocean wide and blue, Convoyed by fighting cruisers; And as we sailed for sunny France I wondered which would get his chance And which would be the loser.

When whole battalions march away and enter in the fray, The little strifes of little towns seem very far away, And all the hasty words that's said Seem petty where great armies tread, And fields are covered thick with dead, And stricken comrades dying; And oft I wondered what I'd say If Bill and I should meet some day, Among the wounded lying.

Strange tricks that jade of fortune plays upon the field of strife, And so it came in war's great game I owed to Bill my life. We didn't meet till on the Somme-- In No-Man's Land I lay most gone, While over head the bright sun shone, And shrapnel shells were flying. Then suddenly I felt a thrill. I heard the voice of fighting Bill For his old foeman calling.

I did my best to cry hello; it was too great a strain; But in a haze I saw his face and heard him call again. I knew him by the broken nose I gave him once when we'd had blows At one of our big country shows, When I gave him a mauling, And then he spied me and cried--Joe! I raised to greet him kind of slow, And then he caught me falling.

Such things as this don't happen much, but they do happen though, And he's a different Bill to-day and I'm a different Joe. We're back again in that same town. He up the street where I live down, And when we meet, we _never_ frown, But we're still Grit and Tory.

"DE FIGHTIN' FISHERMAN"

Oh, de fish she's all glad in de river, De trout and de bass jomp wid glee, For de garcon dat scares all dere liver Is start o'er de ocean--sapre.

De tackles all pack in de bunker, De rod he has change for a gun, Soon he'll troll in a trench for a junker Wit' a steel bullet fit for a Hun.

For Joe he has tak' the King's shilling. He march to the Barriefield Camp, He show he is able and willing, He's de man of de most best stamp.

So Joe when we hear dat you're goin' We know that it won't be for play, An' we lak to giv' somethin' for showin' We don't forget dem dats away.

An' mebbe when you res' from de fightin', Wit' dis keepsake pipe in your jaws, A dream of the office may lighten, Or your islan' camp, up by de Chats.[1]

Fly de flag on de ole _Foxy Quiller_, She be sad till you come back again, A medalled and famous man-killer, Who laid by de rod to hunt men.

An' if in de fight, as in fishin', You handle de gun like de rod, I t'ink Kaiser Bill will be wishin' You never come over,--by God.

An' jes' at dis time when de nation Sends her braves' sons over de sea, We give you our heart's salutation, Au revoir,--and God bless you, Bebe.

Dere's plenty close shave in dis razor, An' de time piece gives radian' light, An' sometam you may capture de Kaiser If he tries to creep up in de night.

[1] Chats, a waterfall on the Ottawa, pronounced as Shaw.

MONSIEUR POILU

You'd say that he was plucky, If you saw him in a trench. It matters not how mucky You'd know that he was French. Monsieur Poilu, gay and eager in his tattered, war-stained coat, Sniping Germans as a pastime with the laughter in his throat. Here's looking at you, Poilu, dashing son of gallant France, You're a gentleman and soldier and you take a fighting chance.

He's bearded and he's scrappy, And his cheeks, they ruddy glow; He can fight, and he is happy, When he's charging on the foe. You would think he was in Paris listening to some sweet refrain, Or dining with the _petite femmes_ along the river Seine, Instead of facing Prussian steel and charging through the fray. Then here's to you, gallant Poilu, with you're heart so light and gay.

Comrade Poilu over there, Fighting to your latest breath, With a smile so debonair In the blazing face of death, You have won undying glory, to your country you've been true, And the whole wide world salutes you and drinks a toast to you. You're a reckless, laughing devil as D'Artagnan of romance, And you're fighting, fighting, fighting for beloved _La Belle France_.

"THE BELLS OF BELGIUM"

I heard the bells of Belgium sweetly ringing, Like angel tones celestial on the air. Within the fields the harvesters were singing, When plentitude and peace were there.

I heard the bells of Belgium softly chiming, When o'er the peaceful vale uprose the moon; The maiden walked, her lover's arm entwining, Unthinking of his exile, or her doom.

I heard the bells of Belgium sadly tolling, They sobbed across the vineyards and the dunes, The rack of war across the land was rolling, And ravagers had laid the land in ruins.

An alien race a land of freemen goaded, And pitiless as proud, took up their reign, And ruffian stern, the heavy burden loaded, On hearts that rankled 'neath the bondsman's chain.

I heard the Belgian bells prophetic ringing, And deep and calm their voices seemed to say: "Let faith and hope in every heart keep springing, For Belgium shall regain her own some day!"

And joy again shall gladden tearful faces, And exiled feet again shall press her sod, And soft intoned within the sacred places, Shall lift the prayers of Belgians unto God.

I heard the bells of Belgium wildly ringing, With madness of great gladness did they ring; They pealed of triumph, and a nation bringing Unto his own, its hero and its King.

LAD OF MY HEART

Lad of my Heart--for you I am lonely, And drear are the hills though they say they are green. 'Tis a sad lass I am with loving you only, Will you never come back to your Irish colleen?

Lad of my Heart--that day I remember, When out of the town with the soldiers away, You marched to the war in the early September, And left me to fight, while I left you to pray.

Lad of my Heart--do you hear my love calling? You that's been gone this many a day. Lad of my love--do you see my tears falling? Waiting for you in the dusk of the May.

Lad of my Heart--I have your last letter, Ever I'll keep it held close in my breast; For the pain deep within it seems to make better, And the stain that's upon it my lips oft have pressed.

Lad of my Heart--I still hear you speaking, "Molly, Aroon, shure now try to be brave," And fondly, with love, your lips mine were seeking, Lad of my Heart, Oh where is your grave?

Somewhere in France--lad of mine, you are lying, And never again will we tryst on the Sod; But we'll meet in the dawn, where there's no more of sighing, Lad of my Heart,--for I know you're with God.

WHEN DRINKING TO ERIN

When drinking to Erin with laughter and story, Remember her soldiers the loyal and brave, Who on fields of France, 'mid a halo of glory, Went to death that the banner of Britain might wave.

Remember the hearts that in Erin are broken, And remember the names that will live through the years, Then lift up the Shamrock, sweet, triple-leaved token, And drink to the war with its glory and tears.

Drink to His Majesty, kingly and gracious, Drink to Earl Roberts, Erin's own pride; Drink to brave Kitchener, strong-willed, tenacious; Drink to her soldiers who battled and died.

How quickly they marshalled when war clouds were breaking, To the call of the Empire they answered with cheers; Few, few were the moments they spent in leave-taking, Ere they sailed for the front, the brave Fusiliers.

Through the valleys of death they marched with the others, True British hearts as their fathers before, English, Irish, and Scots, all heroes, all brothers, Their music of death the cannon's deep roar.

They sleep 'neath a sod where no shamrocks are growing, Afar from Hibernia, their dear, beloved isle; But if you remember, perchance, there's no knowing, They may wake from their sleep for a moment and smile.

And may the tale of their love and devotion Touch the heart lying deep in Britain's broad breast, And may happiness dawn o'er that isle of the ocean That gave to the Empire the sons she loved best.

DUTY

I did not hate the man I killed, That soldier tall with eye of blue. I might have spared him had I willed, I did what Duty bade me do.

The Duty that was his and mine, The thing to which we both were sworn, To take the human life divine Of God, unto a woman born.

To drain the body's coursing blood, To dark the shining eye's bright ray, To limp the form that proudly stood And make of it but lifeless clay.

We had been days in battle grim, And foot by foot had nearer crept. Amid the carnage and the din Had eaten little, little slept.

And then we charged; I saw the gleam Of bayonets in the bright sunshine. We charged with faces fierce and lean, I sought his life and he sought mine.

I took his life, I saw him reel; I pierced his body through and through, And as I plucked away the steel, I met his eyes so wide and blue.

Then passed the battle tide along. Like one gone mad I fought and slew; I had no thought of right or wrong, To fight and kill was all I knew.

We swept the field, we won the day. Entrenched upon the plain I slept; Morn came and with it shadows gray, And something in my heart that wept.

And if to think be not a crime For those who fight the fight of Kings, Upon that plain at dawning time I thought of sweeter, gentler things;

Of home and vales of waving green And one who waited babe on knee; And all the cherished joys between The trenches and my love and me;

Of all the loving hearts that yearn Through cheerless nights and pensive days; And all the tender eyes that burn With dreams, the hand of war waylays;

Of those who feel the armed might, And bear its scars their breasts within, The meek with faces strangely white As her who'd wait in vain for him.

In what old garden would she wait, His golden girl with eyes of brown; By what old fashioned trellised gate In some old street in some old town.

No more to know the touch of hands, Nor tender light of his wide eyes, With all her maiden heart had planned, A vanished dream of Paradise.

For I, on her, the thorny crown With hands ungentle deep had pressed, Her heart's fair garden trampled down, And crushed its roses in her breast.

I did not hate the man I killed, But Duty hath her stern commands; I might have spared him had I willed, But one on high He understands.

The morning broke, and then a lark High in the heavens poured his lay; I turned from phantoms of the dark To Duty and grim war's array.

"A WARTIME GREETING"

As towers the mountain o'er the valleys wide, So lifts the pillar of the patriot's pride; And 'neath the shadow of the Conflict stern, Still brightly may the Christmas hearth-fire burn.

Our greatest and our humblest all are one. To each, one privilege, one gift is given: The love of Country--then from sire to son Preserve our heritage, as our sires have striven.

The past is glorious: the future sure, If we but labour, and with love endure. Such joy as Christmas brings, I wish each one. Let's "carry on"--until the Victory's won.

THE AVIATORS