What does the officer say?

"Dam! Dam! Dam!

Mud and misery, flies and stench, Piggin' it here in a beastly trench, But what I mean, by Jove, you see, I like my men and they don't mind me, So, on the whole, I'd rather be Where I am."

What does the enemy say?

"Kolossal Verdam!

They told me, when the war began, The British Tommy always ran, And so he does, just as they said, But, _Donnerwetter!_ it's straight ahead, Like a ram."

What does the public say?

"Dam! Dam! Dam!

They tax me here, they tax me there, Bread is dear and the cupboard bare, I'm bound to grouse, but if it's the way To win the war, why then I'll pay Like a lamb."

THE VOLUNTEER

(1914-1919)

The dreams are pa.s.sed and gone, old man, That came to you and me, Of a six days' stunt on an east coast front, And the Hun with his back to the sea.

Lord, how we worked and swotted sore To be fit when the day should come!

Four years, my lad, and five months more, Since first we followed the drum.

Though "Follow the drum" is a bit too grand, For we ran to no such frills; It was just the whistles of Nature's band That heartened us up the hills.

That and the toot of the corporal's flute, Until he could blow no more, And the lilt of "Suss.e.x by the Sea,"

The marching song of the corps.

Those hills! My word, you would soon get fit, Be you ever so stale and slack, If you pad it with rifle and marching kit To Rotherfield Hill and back!

Drills in hall, and drills outdoors, And drills of every type, Till we wore our boots with forming fours, And our coats with "Shoulder hipe!"

No glory ours, no sw.a.n.k, no pay, One dull eventless grind; Find yourself, and nothing a day Were the terms that the old boys signed.

Just drill and march and drill again, And swot at the old parade, But they got two hundred thousand men.

Not bad for the old brigade!

A good two hundred thousand came, On the chance of that east coast fight; They may have been old and stiff and lame, But, by George, their hearts were right!

Discipline! My! "Eyes right!" they cried, As we pa.s.sed the drill hall door, And left it at that--so we marched c.o.c.k-eyed From three to half-past four.

And solid! Why, after a real wet bout In a hole in the Flanders mud, It would puzzle the Boche to fetch us out, For we couldn't get out if we would!

Some think we could have stood war's test, Some say that we could not, But a chap can only do his best, And offer all he's got.

Fall out, the guard! The old home guard!

Pile arms! Right turn! Dismiss!

No grousing, even if it's hard To break our ranks like this.

We can't show much in the way of fun For four and a half years gone; If we'd had our chance--just one! just one!-- Carry on, old Sport, carry on!

THE NIGHT PATROL

SEPTEMBER 1918

Behind me on the darkened pier They crowd and chatter, man and maid, A c.o.o.n-song gently strikes the ear, A flapper giggles in the shade.

There where the in-turned lantern gleams It shines on khaki and on bra.s.s; Across its yellow slanting beams The arm-locked lovers slowly pa.s.s.

Out in the darkness one far light Throbs like a pulse, and fades away-- Some signal on the guarded Wight, From Helen's Point to Bembridge Bay.

An eastern wind blows chill and raw, Cheerless and black the waters lie, And as I gaze athwart the haze, I see the night patrol go by.

Creeping shadows blur the gloom, Thicken and darken, pa.s.s and fade; Again and yet again they loom, One ruby spark above each shade-- Twelve ships in all! They glide so near, One hears the wave the fore-foot curled, And yet to those upon the pier They seem some other sterner world.

The c.o.o.n-song whimpers to a wail, The treble laughter sinks and dies, The lovers cl.u.s.ter on the rail, With whispered words and straining eyes.

One hush of awe, and then once more The vision fades for them and me, And there is laughter on the sh.o.r.e, And silent duty on the sea.

THE WRECK ON LOCH McGARRY

If you should search all Scotland round, The mainland, skerries, and the islands, A grimmer spot could not be found Than Loch McGarry in the Highlands.

Pent in by frowning mountains high, It stretches silent as the tomb, Turbid and thick its waters lie, No eye can pierce their yellow gloom.

'Twas here that on a summer day Four tourists hired a crazy wherry.

No warning voices bade them stay, As they pushed out on Loch McGarry.

McFarlane, Chairman of the Board, A grim hard-fisted son of lucre, His thoughts were ever on his h.o.a.rd, And life a money-game, like Euchre.

Bob Ainslie, late of London Town, A spruce young b.u.t.terfly of fashion, A wrinkle in his dressing-gown Would rouse an apoplectic pa.s.sion.

John Waters, John the self-absorbed, With thoughts for ever inward bent, Complacent, self-contained, self-orbed, Wrapped in eternal self-content.

Lastly coquettish Mrs. Wild, Chattering, rowdy, empty-headed; At sight of her the whole world smiled, Except the wretch whom she had wedded.

Such were the four who sailed that day, To the Highlands each a stranger; Sunlit and calm the wide loch lay, With not a hint of coming danger.

Drifting they watched the heather hue, The waters and the cliffs that bound them; The air was still, the sky was blue, Deceitful peace lay all around them.

McFarlane pondered on the stocks, John Waters on his own perfection, Bob Ainslie's thoughts were on his socks, And Mrs. Wild's on her complexion.