Rhymes of a Red Cross Man

The Volunteer

Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall, 'Ere's ONE they don't stampede into the ranks. Them politicians with their greasy ways; Them empire-grabbers--fight for 'em? No fear! I've seen this mess a-comin' from the days Of Algyserious and Aggydear: I've felt me passion rise and swell, But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell?

Sez I: My Country? Mine? I likes their cheek. Me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive, Wot makes my measly thirty bob a week, And sweats red blood to keep meself alive! Fight for the right to slave that they may spend, Them in their mansions, me 'ere in my slum? No, let 'em fight wot's something to defend: But me, I've nothin'--let the Kaiser come. And so I cusses 'ard and well, But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell?

Sez I: If they would do the decent thing, And shield the missis and the little 'uns, Why, even I might shout "God save the King", And face the chances of them 'ungry guns. But we've got three, another on the way; It's that wot makes me snarl and set me jor: The wife and nippers, wot of 'em, I say, If I gets knocked out in this blasted war? Gets proper busted by a shell, But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell?

Ay, wot the 'ell's the use of all this talk? To-day some boys in blue was passin' me, And some of 'em they 'ad no legs to walk, And some of 'em they 'ad no eyes to see. And--well, I couldn't look 'em in the face, And so I'm goin', goin' to declare I'm under forty-one and take me place To face the music with the bunch out there. A fool, you say! Maybe you're right. I'll 'ave no peace unless I fight. I've ceased to think; I only know I've gotta go, Bill, gotta go.

The Convalescent

. . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night; There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree, And I called him as his mother called, but he nivver answered me.

Oh I called him all the night-time, as I walked the wood alone; And I listened and I listened, but I nivver heard a moan; Then I found him at the dawnin', when the sorry sky was red: I was lookin' for the livin', but I only found the dead.

Sure I know that it was Shamus by the silver cross he wore; But the bugles they were callin', and I heard the cannon roar. Oh I had no time to tarry, so I said a little prayer, And I clasped his hands together, and I left him lyin' there.

Now the birds are singin', singin', and I'm home in Donegal, And it's Springtime, and I'm thinkin' that I only dreamed it all; I dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded with its dead, Where I knelt beside me brother when the battle-dawn was red.

Where I prayed beside me brother ere I wint to fight anew: Such dreams as these are evil dreams; I can't believe it's true. Where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard to think of loss . . . But mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps--_A SILVER CROSS_.

The Man from Athabaska

Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me; 'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.

And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder, For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar; Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War; 'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.

Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying, And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do? Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe: Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view.

Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty. You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so." "But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty. And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers--no!" So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago.

For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away; And the partner on my right hand was an 'apache' from Montmartre; On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A. (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)

But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and 'blagues' me all the day. I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago, And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away. Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.

And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea, Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be: Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me!

And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore; And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more; While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.

And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling, And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track; And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac; And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.

So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; And I yarn of fur and feather when the 'marmites' are a-soaring, And they listen to my stories, seven 'poilus' in a row, Seven lean and lousy 'poilus' with their cigarettes aglow.

And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska; And those seven greasy 'poilus' they are crazy to go too. And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo, And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew.

For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered, And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore, And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered, For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly, And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore.

The Red Retreat

Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers (I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); Tramp, tramp, the dim road--we didn't 'ave no pipers, And bellies that was 'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat. Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kiddies cryin' there, The fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame; Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin' there, Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it's a shame!

A-singin' "'Oo's Yer Lady Friend?" we started out from 'Arver, A-singin' till our froats was dry--we didn't care a 'ang; The Frenchies 'ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver, And all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang"; They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy, And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed; And 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled the Marcelaisey! Oh, Gawd! Them was the 'appy days, the days too good to last.

We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin'; We 'ollered: "'Ere We Are Again", and 'struth! but we was dry. The dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow the sweat was pourin'; The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky. We wondered where the 'Uns was--we wasn't long a-wonderin', For down a scruff of 'ill-side they rushes like a flood; Then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin', And arms and legs went soarin' in the fountain of their blood.

For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' and a-singin'; We pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't miss a shot. But though we mowed 'em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin', And all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles was so 'ot. We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin' out of 'em, And then we fixed our bay'nets and we spitted 'em like meat. You should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal; you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em, And 'ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat!

Retreat! That was the 'ell of it. It fair upset our 'abits, A-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the roads of France; A-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry rabbits, And knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 'ad 'alf a chance. Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin' and a-blunderin'; All day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on our feet; A-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit o' rest, and wonderin' If sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest to eat.

Ho yus, there isn't many left that started out so cheerily; There was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no autmobeels. Our tummies they was 'oller, and our 'eads was 'angin' wearily, And if we stopped to light a fag the 'Uns was on our 'eels. That rotten road! I can't forget the kids and mothers flyin' there, The bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid sights I sor; The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin' there, Their faces covered over wiv a little 'eap of stror.