Part 3

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.

Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets 'ummin' (I've panted out this ditty with me 'ot 'ard breath.) Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin', The lootin' and the shootin' and the shrieks o' death. Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde pursuin' there, And 'ow we 'urled it back again, them grim, grey waves; Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves.

The Haggis of Private McPhee

"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me? It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee. "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun, As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun. "A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee; "The brawest big haggis I ever did see. And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns Tae haggis and whuskey--the Birthday o' Burns. We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."

"Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole; "I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol." Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun: "I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done." Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee: "I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree." But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair: "Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare; And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun', We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon. Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black, O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."

My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land, And the deid they were rottin' on every hand. And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky, And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by. There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells, And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells; But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol. For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.

Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer Calamity's aften maist cruelly near. And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine The Boches below them were howkin' a mine. And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae, The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away. Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom, A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.

"Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun. "Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done. It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee; Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee. "Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun; "And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run, It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see: I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me." Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid: "If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid. And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent." "That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind. Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind; And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot-- It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got." For a while they were silent; then up once again Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain: "And why should we miss it? Between you and me We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see. You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht, And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."

Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee, When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee. Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun', When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun. "Keep clear o' them corpses--they're maybe no deid! Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid. Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup. A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup. Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine: Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine."

There wis death and destruction on every hand; There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land. And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare, And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air. Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'. And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot, And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot. "On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal; I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."

But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun, Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'. Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear: "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here. It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; It's steamin' for us, and we're--jist--aboot--there." Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap! For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap." And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain, And onward he staggers in passion and pain. And the flare and the glare and the fury increase, Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease. And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, And someone is shoutin' away on their right; And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer; And swift through the crash and the flash and the din, The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.

"They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole. When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair, And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair. And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot, And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot, When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell, And it--DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL."

And oh but the lads were fair taken aback; Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, And up from the trenches like lions they leapt, And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang: And there wisna a man but had death in his ee, For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.

The Lark

From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, The guns have brayed without abate; And now the sick sun looks upon The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate As if it loathed to rise again. How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! From yon down-trodden gold of grain, The leaping rapture of a lark.

A fusillade of melody, That sprays us from yon trench of sky; A new amazing enemy We cannot silence though we try; A battery on radiant wings, That from yon gap of golden fleece Hurls at us hopes of such strange things As joy and home and love and peace.

Pure heart of song! do you not know That we are making earth a hell? Or is it that you try to show Life still is joy and all is well? Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain You beat into that bit of blue: Lo! we who pant in war's red rain Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too.

The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins

Me and Ed and a stretcher Out on the nootral ground. (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher There's a 'undred smellin' around.) Me and Eddie O'Brian, Both of the R. A. M. C. "It's a 'ell of a night For a soul to take flight," As Eddie remarks to me. Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, Thinkin' our job is done, When sudden and clear, Wot do we 'ear: 'Owl of a wounded 'Un.

"Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; "Got to take all we can. 'E may be a Germ Wiv the 'eart of a worm, But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' ('E'd always a medical knack), When that wounded 'Un 'E rolls to 'is gun, And 'e plugs me pal in the back.

Now what would you do? I arst you. There was me slaughtered mate. There was that 'Un (I'd collered 'is gun), A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, But when I got through, Between me and you, It was 'orrid and jaggy and red.

"'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." It's slow and it's sure and it's steady (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). The rockets are shootin' and shinin', It's rainin' a perishin' flood, The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', And I'm up to me stern in the mud. There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; It's black as a bucket of tar; Oh, I'm doin' my bit, But I'm 'avin' a fit, And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar.

"Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." Gord! But I'm crocky already; My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! There goes the biff of a bullet. The Boches have got us for fair. Another one--WHUT! The son of a slut! 'E managed to miss by a 'air. 'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? Gave it a dooce of a wrench. Is it Eddy or me Wot's a-bleedin' so free? Crust! but it's long to the trench. I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, And Ed ain't a flapper by far; I'm blamed if I understand 'ow We've managed to get where we are. But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. "Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. Old pal, it's all right; It's a 'ell of a fight, But are we down-'earted? No-o-o."

Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? It's the rummiest sort of a go. For when it's most real, It's then that you feel You're a-watchin' a cinema show. 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, And I'm 'ere in a pit Where a coal-box 'as 'it, And it's all like a giddy romance. The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': 'Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood In the rain and the mud, Which is some'ow the right thing to do; Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. A feller wot punctured your partner; Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, And you still see 'is eyes Starin' bang at the skies, And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. But you wish you was back in your diggin's Asleep on your mouldy old stror. Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, But you ain't just enjoyin' the war."

"'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. It's us for the bomb-belt again. Except for the shrap Which 'as 'it me a tap, I'm feelin' as right as the rain. It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, But don't be oneasy, my pippin, I'm goin' to pilot you in. It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. The bullets is buzzin' like bees. Me shoulder's red-'ot, And I'm bleedin' a lot, And me legs is on'inged at the knees. But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. Just stick it, old sport, play the game. I make 'em out clearer and clearer, Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. 'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! I'll carry you in if I die. By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. They're sendin' out stretchers for two. Let's give 'em the hoorah between us ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). My flipper is mashed to a jelly. A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. We've shed lots of gore And we're leakin' some more, But--wot a hoccasion it's been! Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, Shoulder to shoulder--so. They mustn't think we was down-'earted. Old pal, we was never down-'earted. If they arsts us if we was down-'earted We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'"

A Song of Winter Weather

It isn't the foe that we fear; It isn't the bullets that whine; It isn't the business career Of a shell, or the bust of a mine; It isn't the snipers who seek To nip our young hopes in the bud: No, it isn't the guns, And it isn't the Huns-- It's the MUD, MUD, MUD.