But protest was but wasted breath although you spent a day on it,
He’d threaten you with instant death and wave a rusty bayonet.
(Here comes a protest from my Muse: ‘Have done with all this frolicking,
And if you tell the sequel, choose a metre not so rollicking.’)
Leave at last had Hiawatha
(I beg pardon, I mean Harold),
Leave to visit home and kindred;
Safely was the Channel travelled,
But, alas, at disembarking,
As he staggered up the gangway –
Hundredweights of kit about him,
As he fumbled in his pocket
For the little landing-ticket,
Came a deafening explosion,
Came a flash of blinding brightness,
Harold was no more existent;
In his hurry he’d forgotten
He’d a Mills’ bomb in his pocket
Where he rummaged for the ticket.
So he never reached his home and
Wife and children vainly stuck the
Holly in the Christmas pudding;
All in vain the children’s stockings,
Waited slack and empty for the
Souvenirs from France to fill them.
’Twas the child of the Inspector
At the Customs house at Folkestone
Who as fate ordained enjoyed them,
For the kit that had survived him
Had been promptly confiscated.
A moral from this tale appears, which let us not poke fun at: ‘All Beware, beware of souvenirs, and if you can, have none at all.’
Virtue
Now you subs of tender years
For your morals, it appears,
(You must admit they’re open much to question)
There is shortly going to be
A morality O.C.,
Who will see that vice does not spoil your digestion.
His H.Q. is going to be
Close by Leicester Square, and he
Will parade his Batt. for duty every night,
In his ranks we’ll shortly see
P’raps a Bishop or M.P.,
Who will see that virtue’s path you tread aright.
If on leave and pleasure bent
At Victoria, a gent
Will grab you as you’re dodging off alone,
Will escort you to H.Q.,
When you’ll quickly find that you
Are provided with an aged chaperone.
Your amusement will depend
On how much she’ll let you spend,
And you’ll dine at Lyons or an A.B.C.,
Should you dare to want a drink,
With a look she’ll make you think
What an awful well of sin a sub can be.
You may smoke one cigarette,
Ere retiring you will get
All your orders for the morrow’s pleasure feast,
Hand your cash in charge, and then
Off to bed as clock strikes ten,
Feeling that in former days you were a beast.
You will come to learn and love
Programmes as described above
For you must admit that you were most immoral,
You will find when leave’s expired
That your fancies will have tired
For the glass that sparkles, and for lips of coral.
Mufti Once More
(Lines on a prospect of Three Weeks’ Leave.)
What though the camphor’s barrage lines
Have failed to stop the looting
And moths have marred my chaste designs,
Oh ante-bellum suiting!
Oh stylish weeds wherein I wooed
Evangeline and Ermyntrude,
Oh pair of spats that once astounded Tooting!
What though, I say, this fancy vest
A fearsome sight discloses,
Where wingèd things have found a nest
And snatched their impious dozes,
And battened on the sacred woof,
And made it bed and board and roof,
Wearing, I doubt not, gas-masks on their noses?
Conscious, at least, that long ago
They took the town with splendour,
Shall I not put them on and blow
The war-time mufti-vendor?
Though I look somewhat like a sieve,
Shall not men, seeing me, forgive?
There are no shades to-day so sweet, so tender.
How soon, how swiftly laughed he
At all our petty peace-time grooves,
And challenged Fritz the crafty;
These were the 1914 cut;
In those dim days he was a nut;
Just now, of course, they seem a trifle draughty?’
Yes, I am proud; my chest is filled
With triumph, and I smack it;
What do I care for punctures drilled
Straight through a service jacket?
These are my wounds – this well-loved tweed,
Laid on one side for England’s need,
Less like a tweed now than a tennis racquet.
Then up, my ancient suits and ties!
In vain the tailors peddle;
In vain for me the sempstress plies
Her spinning-wheel and treadle;
The voice of British Honour speaks
In these my perforated breeks,
Each orifice becomes a blooming medal.
E.G.V. Knox
A Vision of Blighty
I do not ask, when back on Blighty’s shore
My frozen frame in liberty shall rest,
For pleasure to beguile the hours in store
With long-drawn revel or with antique jest.
I do not ask to probe the tedious pomp
And tinsel splendour of the last Revue;
The Fox-trot’s mysteries, the giddy Romp,
And all such folly I would fain eschew.
But, propt on cushions of my long desire,
Deep-buried in the vastest of armchairs,
Let me recline what time the roaring fire
Consumes itself and all my former cares.
I shall not think nor speak, nor laugh nor weep,
But simply sit and sleep and sleep and sleep.
J. Shirley
Ragtime
A minx in khaki struts the limelit boards:
With false moustache, set smirk and ogling eyes
And straddling legs and swinging hips she tries
To swagger it like a soldier, while the chords
Of rampant ragtime jangle, clash, and clatter;
And over the brassy blare and drumming din
She strains to squirt her squeaky notes and thin
Spirtle of sniggering lascivious patter.
Then out into the jostling Strand I turn,
And down a dark lane to the quiet river,
One stream of silver under the full moon,
And think of how cold searchlights flare and burn
Over dark trenches where men crouch and shiver,
Humming, to keep their hearts up, that same tune.
Wilfrid W. Gibson
At Afternoon Tea
Triolet
We have taken a trench
Near Combles, I see,
Along with the French.
We have taken a trench.
(Oh, the bodies, the stench!)
Won’t you have some more tea?
We have taken a trench
Near Combles, I see.
F.W. Harvey
On Leave (1)
I wanter go back to the trenches;
I wanter go back to the front;
I wanter go back to me rifle an’ pack,
An’ ’ear me old straps creak and grunt;
I wanter get back to me blanket,
An’ sleep on me little old plank,
; ’Cos the cold, clammy sheets that the folks thinks is treats
Make me shiver like rats in a tank.
I wanter get back from the war news,
I wanter get back to the Hun;
I wanter retreat from the chaps in the street
’Oo know ’ow the war should be run:
I wanter go where ‘Tipperary’
Ain’t whistled from mornin’ till night;
I wanter go back where the Zepps don’t attack
’Cos there ain’t any babies to fight.
I wanter get back from the flappers
’Oo rattle their boxes an’ flags:
I wanter vamoose from the bloomin’ revues
An’ the wearisome singin’ of ‘rags’;
I wanter get back from the motors,
An’ miners with strikes on the brain,
I’m too muddled to think, an’ I shan’t sleep a wink
Till I’m safe back in Flanders again.
D. Large
On Leave (2)
(To R.H. and V.H.L.D.)
It was not the white cliff at the rim of the sea,
Nor Folkestone, with its roofs all bless’d with smoke;
Nor the shrill English children at the quay;
Not even the railway-bank alight with primrose fire,
Nor the little fields of Kent, and the woods, and the far church spire –
It was not these that spoke.
It was the red earth of Devon that called to me,
‘So you’m back, you li’l boy that us used to know!’
It was the deep, dim lanes that wind to the sea,
And the Devon streams that turn and twist and run,
And the Devon hills that stretch themselves in the sun,
Like drowsy green cats watching the world below.
There were herons stalked the salty pools that day,
Where the sea comes laughing up to the very rails . . .
At Newton I saw Dartmoor far away.
By Paignton there was one I saw who ploughed,
With the red dust round him like a sunset cloud,
And beyond in the bay was Brixham with her sails.
How could I fail to mourn for you, the brave,
Who loved these things a little year before?
In each unshattered field I saw a grave,
And through the unceasing music of the sea
The scream of shells came back, came back to me.
It was a green peace that suddenly taught me war.
Out of the fight you found the shorter way
To those great silences where men may sleep.
We follow by the paths of every day,
Blind as God made us, hoping that the end
May hear that laughter between friend and friend
Such as through death the greater-hearted keep.
We are not weary yet. The fight draws out,
And sometimes we have sickened at the kill,
And sometimes in the night comes slinking doubt
To whisper that peace cometh not through Hell.
But yet we want to hear God’s anger tell
The guns to cease their fury and be still.
We are not weary yet, though here the rain
Beats without shame upon the shattered dead.
And there I see the lazy waves again.
And in the weedy pools along the beach
The brown-legged boys, with their dear Devon speech,
Are happier than the gay gulls overhead.
Up the wet sand a spaniel sputters by,
Soused like a seal, and laughing at their feet;
There is a gull comes slanting down the sky,
Kisses the sea, and mews, and flies away.
And, like flat jewels set against the grey,
The roofs of Brixham glitter through the heat.
It was for this you died: this, through the earth,
Peace and the great men peace shall make,
And dogs and children and careless mirth . . .
Beauty be with you now – and of this land
In bloody travail for the world you planned,
God give you deep oblivion when you wake.
T.P. Cameron Wilson
A Day in Spring
But distant Spring sat waiting fair
With wealth of flowers to be,
Half wond’ring if she scarcely dare
To set a Spring-day free
With Winter still in power, and share
The hours in rivalry.
I think she must have known that you
And I were glad that day,
For in defiance, skies were blue
And warm the sun’s pale ray,
And distant lay the silvered view
Of Trent’s sweet winding way.
A gentle wind with zephyr sighs
Caressed your glossy hair;
The river-light was in your eyes,
Your face a happy lair
To catch the sunlight for your prize
And keep it captive there.
We wandered through the leafless aisles
That skirt the banks of Trent,
And oft, between the sudden whiles
When sunshine came and went,
I saw your face with happy smiles
And richest love all blent.
Those happy hours are ever set,
Though all too brief and bright;
Within my book of ‘Ne’er Forget’ –
The leaves where I indite
Sweet mem’ries, that will always wet
The stars with tears at night.
Edmund Hennesley
Oxford Revisited
Last week, a prey to military duty,
I turned my lagging footsteps to the West;
I have a natural taste for scenic beauty,
And all my pent emotions may be guessed
To find myself again
At Didcot, loathliest junction of the plain.
But all things come upon the patient waiter,
‘Behold!’ I cried, ‘in yon contiguous blue
Beetle the antique spires of Alma Mater
Almost exactly as they used to do
In 1898,
When I became an undergraduate.
‘O joys whereto I went as to a bridal,
With Youth’s fair aureole clustering on a brow
That no amount of culture (herpecidal)
Will coax the semblance of a crop from now,
Once more I make ye mine;
There is a train that leaves at half-past nine.
‘In a rude land where life among the boys is
One long glad round of cards and coffin juice,
And any sort of intellectual poise is
The constant butt of well-expressed abuse,
And it is no disgrace
To put the table-knife inside one’s face,
‘I have remembered picnics on the Isis,
Bonfires and bumps and BOFFIN’S cakes and tea,
Nor ever dreamed a European crisis
Would make a British soldier out of me –
The mute inglorious kind
That push the beastly war on from behind.
‘But here I am’ (I mused) ‘and quad and cloister
Are beckoning to me with the old allure;
The lovely world of Youth shall be mine oyster
Which I for one-and-ninepence can secure,
Reaching on Memory’s wing
Parnassus’ groves and Wisdom’s fabled spring’.
But oh, the facts! How doomed to disillusion
The dreams that cheat the mind’s responsive eye!
Where are the undergrads in gay profusion
Whose waistcoats made melodious the High,
And the jeunesse dorée
That shed the glamour of an elder day?
Can this be Oxford? And is that my college
That vomits khaki through its sacred gate?
Are those the schools where once I aired my knowledge
Where nurses pass and ambulances wait?
Ah! sick ones, pale of face,
I too have suffered tortures in that place!
In Tom his quad the Bloods no longer flourish;
Balliol is bare of all but mild Hindoos;
The stalwart oars the Isis used to nourish
Are in the trenches giving Fritz the Blues,
And many a stout D.D.
Is digging trenches with the V.T.C.
Why press the search when every hallowed close is
Cluttered with youthful soldiers forming fours;
While the drum stutters and the bugler blows his
Loud summons, and the hoarse bull-sergeant roars,
While almost out of view
The thrumming biplane cleaves the astonished blue?
It is a sight to stir the pulse of poet,
These splendid youths with zeal and courage fired,
But as for Private Me, M.A. – why, blow it!
The very sight of soldiers makes me tired;
Learning – detached, apart –
I sought, not War’s reverberating art.
Vain search! But see! One ancient institution
Still doing business at the same old stand;
’Tis Messrs Barclay’s Bank, or I’m a Proosian,
That erst dispensed my slender cash-in-hand;
I’ll borrow of their pelf
And buy some War Loan to console myself.
C.H. Bretherton
On Christmas Leave
When I got into Chainey’s bus
Down at the station it began;
I didn’t seem a fighting-man
No more: the old hills made no fuss
At seeing me; the winding road
That troops an’ transports never knowed,
And the old station nag’s click-clack
Just took me back.
The Twelve Apostles’ boughs were bare,
Just as they was last time I came.
Mother was looking just the same
And Father hadn’t turned a hair.
I washed as usual at the pump;
My bed had got the same old lump;
Dick lived next door – I near forgot
I seen him shot.