Part 12

"Rise with the cheerful sun, go to bed with the same, Work in your field or kailyard all the shining day, But," he said, "never more in quest of wealth, honour, fame, Search the small hours of night before the East goes grey. A healthy mind, a honest heart, a wise man leaves Those ugly impious times to ghosts, devils, soldiers, thieves."

Poor fool, knowing too well deep in his heart That he'll be ready again if urgent orders come, To quit his rye and cabbages, kiss his wife and part At the first sullen rapping of the awakened drum, Ready once more to sweat with fear and brace for the shock, To greet beneath a falling flare the jests of the clock.

HERE THEY LIE.

Here they lie who once learned here All that is taught of hurt or fear; Dead, but by free will they died: They were true men, they had pride.

TOM TAYLOR.

On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, Homeward (still dazzled by the spark Love kindled in some alley dark) Young soldiers mooning in slow thought, Start suddenly, turn about, are caught By a dancing sound, merry as a grig, Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig. Never was blown from human cheeks Music like this, that calls and speaks Till sots and lovers from one string Dangle and dance in the same ring. Tom, of your piping I've heard said And seen--that you can rouse the dead, Dead-drunken men awash who lie In stinking gutters hear your cry, I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh, Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then You set them dancing, these dead men. They stamp and prance with sobbing breath, Victims of wine or love or death, In ragged time they jump, they shake Their heads, sweating to overtake The impetuous tune flying ahead. They flounder after, with legs of lead. Now, suddenly as it started, play Stops, the short echo dies away, The corpses drop, a senseless heap, The drunk men gaze about like sheep. Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare Up at the broad moon hanging there, While Tom, five fingers to his nose, Skips off...And the last bugle blows.

COUNTRY AT WAR.

And what of home--how goes it, boys, While we die here in stench and noise? "The hill stands up and hedges wind Over the crest and drop behind; Here swallows dip and wild things go On peaceful errands to and fro Across the sloping meadow floor, And make no guess at blasting war. In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder, And shoot again. Meadows yet show Alternate white of drifted snow And daisies. Children play at shop, Warm days, on the flat boulder-top, With wildflower coinage, and the wares Are bits of glass and unripe pears. Crows perch upon the backs of sheep, The wheat goes yellow: women reap, Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond, Flutter the hedge and fly beyond. So the first things of nature run, And stand not still for any one, Contemptuous of the distant cry Wherewith you harrow earth and sky. And high French clouds, praying to be Back, back in peace beyond the sea, Where nature with accustomed round Sweeps and garnishes the ground With kindly beauty, warm or cold-- Alternate seasons never old: Heathen, how furiously you rage, Cursing this blood and brimstone age, How furiously against your will You kill and kill again, and kill: All thought of peace behind you cast, Till like small boys with fear aghast, Each cries for God to understand, 'I could not help it, it was my hand.'"

SOSPAN FACH. (The Little Saucepan)

Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale Took shelter from a shower of hail, And there beneath a spreading tree Attuned their mouths to harmony.

With smiling joy on every face Two warbled tenor, two sang bass, And while the leaves above them hissed with Rough hail, they started "Aberystwyth."

Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich, They changed through with even pitch, Till at the end of their grand noise I called: "Give us the 'Sospan' boys!"

Who knows a tune so soft, so strong, So pitiful as that "Saucepan" song For exiled hope, despaired desire Of lost souls for their cottage fire?

Then low at first with gathering sound Rose their four voices, smooth and round, Till back went Time: once more I stood With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood.

Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale, For ice hail they had leaden hail; In that fine forest, green and big, There stayed unbroken not one twig.

They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste, Stumbling and shouting through the waste; The little "Saucepan" flamed on high, Emblem of hope and ease gone by.

Rough pit-boys from the coaly South, They sang, even in the cannon's mouth; Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn, The death-trap sounded with their din.

***

The storm blows over, Sun comes out, The choir breaks up with jest and shout, With what relief I watch them part-- Another note would break my heart!

THE LEVELLER.

Near Martinpuisch that night of hell Two men were struck by the same shell, Together tumbling in one heap Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep.

One was a pale eighteen-year-old, Girlish and thin and not too bold, Pressed for the war ten years too soon, The shame and pity of his platoon.

The other came from far-off lands With bristling chin and whiskered hands, He had known death and hell before In Mexico and Ecuador.

Yet in his death this cut-throat wild Groaned "Mother! Mother!" like a child, While that poor innocent in man's clothes Died cursing God with brutal oaths.

Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men, Wrote out two copies there and then Of his accustomed funeral speech To cheer the womenfolk of each.

HATE NOT, FEAR NOT.

Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight.

Hate is a fear, and fear is rot That cankers root and fruit alike, Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, Strike with no madness when you strike.