Part 8

Left, right, Hans and Fritz! Goose step, keep up yer mits! Oh my, Ain't it a shyme! Part of me outfit every time.

At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; I've used it to open a bully beef can; For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; For any old thing but for stickin' a man. 'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you! Part of me outfit every time.

Lor, yus; DON'T they look glad? Right O! 'Owl Kamerad! Oh my, always the syme! Part of me outfit every time.

I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; I'm fairly down-'earted--'ow CAN yer explain it? I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; And I uses me bay'nit--to slit their suspenders-- Part of me outfit every time.

Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag! 'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag! Oh my, ain't it a gyme! Part of me outfit every time.

Carry On!

It's easy to fight when everything's right, And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; It's easy to cheer when victory's near, And wallow in fields that are gory. It's a different song when everything's wrong, When you're feeling infernally mortal; When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on! There isn't much punch in your blow. You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind; You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind. Carry on! Carry on! You haven't the ghost of a show. It's looking like death, but while you've a breath, Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life It's easy to fight when you're winning; It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, When the dawn of success is beginning. But the man who can meet despair and defeat With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing; The man who can fight to Heaven's own height Is the man who can fight when he's losing.

Carry on! Carry on! Things never were looming so black. But show that you haven't a cowardly streak, And though you're unlucky you never are weak. Carry on! Carry on! Brace up for another attack. It's looking like hell, but--you never can tell: Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt, And some who in brutishness wallow; There are others, I know, who in piety go Because of a Heaven to follow. But to labour with zest, and to give of your best, For the sweetness and joy of the giving; To help folks along with a hand and a song; Why, there's the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on! Fight the good fight and true; Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer; There's big work to do, and that's why you are here. Carry on! Carry on! Let the world be the better for you; And at last when you die, let this be your cry: CARRY ON, MY SOUL! CARRY ON!

Over the Parapet

All day long when the shells sail over I stand at the sandbags and take my chance; But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover, And over the parapet gleams Romance. Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing Dreary old records of money and mart, Me with my head chuckful of fighting And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart.

But little I thought that my time was coming, Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon; And here I am with the bullets humming As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon. Out alone, for adventure thirsting, Out in mysterious No Man's Land; Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting, Flares on the horrors on every hand. There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle; And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red; There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle, And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead. But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness, That spill in a pool of pearly flame, Pretty as gems in their silver brightness, And etching a man for a bullet's aim.

Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, When the moon is decently hiding. Hark! What was that? Was it just the shiver Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land?

It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, And gibber and whisper horrible things; For to every foot of this God-forsaken Zone of jeopard some horror clings. Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly, That flattish mound in the noisome grass; You three big rats running free of its belly, Out of my way and let me pass!

But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; The trench lights gleam and the rockets play. That flood of magnificent orange yonder Is a battery blazing miles away. With a rush and a singing a great shell passes; The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, And look and listen and love it all.

God! What a life! But I must make haste now, Before the shadow of night be spent. It's little the time there is to waste now, If I'd do the job for which I was sent. My bombs are right and my clippers ready, And I wriggle out to the chosen place, When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady! Who am I staring slap in the face?

There in the dark I can hear him breathing, A foot away, and as still as death; And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath. Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely, For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. "English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. "Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I.

So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle There in the gutter of No Man's Land; And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter: "Now," I say, "I can kill you fine; But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein."

NINE! Well, I cannot kill such a father, So I tie his hands and I leave him there. Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; And I get home safe with some light to spare. Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, Doing the same old song and dance; But oh! with the night--joy, glory, beauty: Over the parapet--Life, Romance!

The Ballad of Soulful Sam

You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; Out there where the bombs are bustin', and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam-- Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam.

Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird!

He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest.

For I--and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! 'Ave been--let me whisper it 'oarsely--a gambler 'alf of me days; A gambler, you 'ear--a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep, And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren!--I'd rather gamble than sleep.

I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain. Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf, And when I'd no one to play with--why, I'd go and I'd play by meself.