Part 31

As long as there's an Englishman to ask a tale of me, As long as I can tell the tale aright, We'll not forget the penny whistle's wheedle-deedle-dee And the big Dragoon a-beating down the night, Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!

Henry Newbolt

THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART

Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of shell and shell His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile which he calls a "Black Maria."

He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all. 'T is then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary.

His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."

He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith--be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.

Owen Seaman

October, 1914

IN THE TRENCHES

As I lay in the trenches Under the Hunter's Moon, My mind ran to the lenches Cut in a Wiltshire down.

I saw their long black shadows, The beeches in the lane, The gray church in the meadows And my white cottage--plain.

Thinks I, the down lies dreaming Under that hot moon's eye, Which sees the shells fly screaming And men and horses die.

And what makes she, I wonder, Of the horror and the blood, And what's her luck, to sunder The evil from the good?

'T was more than I could compass, For how was I to think With such infernal rumpus In such a blasted stink?

But here's a thought to tally With t'other. That moon sees A shrouded German valley With woods and ghostly trees.

And maybe there's a river As we have got at home With poplar-trees aquiver And clots of whirling foam.

And over there some fellow, A German and a foe, Whose gills are turning yellow As sure as mine are so,

Watches that riding glory Apparel'd in her gold, And craves to hear the story Her frozen lips enfold.

And if he sees as clearly As I do where her shrine Must fall, he longs as dearly. With heart as full as mine.

Maurice Hewlett

THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH

Men of the Twenty-first Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food, After a day and a night-- God, shall we ever forget! Beaten and broke in the fight, But sticking it--sticking it yet. Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done, Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun! Northumberland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it--sticking it yet.

Never a message of hope! Never a word of cheer! Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope, With the dull dead plain in our rear. Always the whine of the shell, Always the roar of its burst, Always the tortures of hell, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck and the guns and the Boche, When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!" And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!" And the Guards came through.

Our throats they were parched and hot, But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers! Irish and Welsh and Scot, Coldstream and Grenadiers. Two brigades, if you please, Dressing as straight as a hem, We--we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them! Lord, I could speak for a week, But how could you understand! How should your cheeks be wet, Such feelin's don't come to you. But when can me or my mates forget, When the Guards came through?

"Five yards left extend!" It passed from rank to rank. Line after line with never a bend, And a touch of the London swank. A trifle of swank and dash, Cool as a home parade, Twinkle and glitter and flash, Flinching never a shade, With the shrapnel right in their face Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Keeping their swing at an easy pace, Arms at the trail, eyes front! Man, it was great to see! Man, it was fine to do! It's a cot and a hospital ward for me, But I'll tell 'em in Blighty, wherever I be, How the Guards came through.

Arthur Conan Doyle

THE PASSENGERS OF A RETARDED SUBMERSIBLE