Ballads of a Bohemian Part 24

Now Kelly was no fighter; He loved his pipe and gla.s.s; An easygoing blighter, Who lived in Montparna.s.se.

But 'mid the tavern tattle He heard some guinney say: "When France goes forth to battle, The Legion leads the way.

_"The scourings of creation, Of every sin and station, The men who've known d.a.m.nation, Are picked to lead the way."_

Well, Kelly joined the Legion; They marched him day and night; They rushed him to the region Where largest loomed the fight.

"Behold your mighty mission, Your destiny," said they; "By glorious tradition The Legion leads the way.

_"With tattered banners flying With trail of dead and dying, On! On! All h.e.l.l defying, The Legion sweeps the way."_

With grim, hard-bitten faces, With jests of savage mirth, They swept into their places, The men of iron worth; Their blooded steel was flas.h.i.+ng; They swung to face the fray; Then rus.h.i.+ng, roaring, cras.h.i.+ng, The Legion cleared the way.

_The trail they blazed was gory; Few lived to tell the story; Through death they plunged to glory; But, oh, they cleared the way!_

Now Kelly lay a-dying, And dimly saw advance, With split new banners flying, The _fanta.s.sins_ of France.

Then up amid the _melee_ He rose from where he lay; "Come on, me boys," says Kelly, "The Layjun lades the way!"

_Aye, while they faltered, doubting (Such flames of doom were spouting), He caught them, thrilled them, shouting: "The Layjun lades the way!"_

They saw him slip and stumble, Then stagger on once more; They marked him trip and tumble, A ma.s.s of grime and gore; They watched him blindly crawling Amid h.e.l.l's own affray, And calling, calling, calling: "The Layjun lades the way!"

_And even while they wondered, The battle-wrack was sundered; To Victory they thundered, But . . . Kelly led the way._

Still Kelly kept agoing; Berserker-like he ran; His eyes with fury glowing, A lion of a man; His rifle madly swinging, His soul athirst to slay, His slogan ringing, ringing, "The Layjun lades the way!"

_Till in a pit death-baited, Where Huns with Maxims waited, He plunged . . . and there, blood-sated, To death he stabbed his way._

Now Kelly was a fellow Who simply loathed a fight: He loved a tavern mellow, Grog hot and pipe alight; I'm sure the Show appalled him, And yet without dismay, When Death and Duty called him, He up and led the way.

_So in Valhalla drinking (If heroes meek and shrinking Are suffered there), I'm thinking 'Tis Kelly leads the way._

We have just had one of our men killed, a young sculptor of immense promise.

When one thinks of all the fine work he might have accomplished, it seems a shame. But, after all, to-morrow it may be the turn of any of us. If it should be mine, my chief regret will be for work undone.

Ah! I often think of how I will go back to the Quarter and take up the old life again. How sweet it will all seem. But first I must earn the right. And if ever I do go back, how I will find Bohemia changed!

Missing how many a face!

It was in thinking of our lost comrade I wrote the following:

The Three Tommies

That Barret, the painter of pictures, what feeling for color he had!

And Fanning, the maker of music, such melodies mirthful and mad!

And Harley, the writer of stories, so whimsical, tender and glad!

To hark to their talk in the trenches, high heart unfolding to heart, Of the day when the war would be over, and each would be true to his part, Upbuilding a Palace of Beauty to the wonder and glory of Art . . .

Yon's Barret, the painter of pictures, yon carca.s.s that rots on the wire; His hand with its sensitive cunning is crisped to a cinder with fire; His eyes with their magical vision are bubbles of glutinous mire.

Poor Fanning! He sought to discover the symphonic note of a sh.e.l.l; There are bits of him broken and b.l.o.o.d.y, to show you the place where he fell; I've reason to fear on his exquisite ear the rats have been banqueting well.

And speaking of Harley, the writer, I fancy I looked on him last, Sprawling and staring and writhing in the roar of the battle blast; Then a mad gun-team crashed over, and scattered his brains as it pa.s.sed.

Oh, Harley and Fanning and Barret, they were b.l.o.o.d.y good mates o' mine; Their bodies are empty bottles; Death has guzzled the wine; What's left of them's filth and corruption. . . . Where is the Fire Divine?

I'll tell you. . . . At night in the trenches, as I watch and I do my part, Three radiant spirits I'm seeing, high heart revealing to heart, And they're building a peerless palace to the splendor and triumph of Art.

Yet, alas! for the fame of Barret, the glory he might have trailed!

And alas! for the name of Fanning, a star that beaconed and paled, Poor Harley, obscure and forgotten. . . .

Well, who shall say that they failed!

No, each did a Something Grander than ever he dreamed to do; And as for the work unfinished, all will be paid their due; The broken ends will be fitted, the balance struck will be true.

So painters, and players, and penmen, I tell you: Do as you please; Let your fame outleap on the trumpets, you'll never rise up to these-- To three grim and gory Tommies, down, down on your bended knees!

Daventry, the sculptor, is buried in a little graveyard near one of our posts. Just now our section of the line is quiet, so I often go and sit there. Stretching myself on a flat stone, I dream for hours.

Silence and solitude! How good the peace of it all seems! Around me the gra.s.ses weave a pattern, and half hide the hundreds of little wooden crosses. Here is one with a single name:

AUBREY.

Who was Aubrey I wonder? Then another:

_To Our Beloved Comrade._

Then one which has attached to it, in the cheapest of little frames, the crude water-color daub of a child, three purple flowers standing in a yellow vase. Below it, painfully printed, I read:

_To My Darling Papa--Thy Little Odette._

And beyond the crosses many fresh graves have been dug. With hungry open mouths they wait. Even now I can hear the guns that are going to feed them. Soon there will be more crosses, and more and more. Then they will cease, and wives and mothers will come here to weep.

Ah! Peace so precious must be bought with blood and tears. Let us honor and bless the men who pay, and envy them the manner of their dying; for not all the jeweled orders on the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the living can vie in glory with the little wooden cross the humblest of these has won. . . .

The Twa Jocks