Fairies and Fusiliers Part 1

Fairies and Fusiliers.

by Robert Graves.

TO AN UNGENTLE CRITIC

_The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine...._ But what's the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the town?

You'll only skip the page, you'll look For newer pictures in this book; You've read of sunsets rich as mine.

_A fresh wind fills the evening air With horrid crying of night birds...._ But what reads new or curious there When cold winds fly across the air?

You'll only frown; you'll turn the page, But find no glimpse of your "New Age Of Poetry" in my worn-out words.

Must winds that cut like blades of steel And sunsets swimming in Volnay, The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, Die stillborn, because old men squeal For something new: "Write something new: We've read this poem--that one too, And twelve more like 'em yesterday"?

No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl Just what I fancy as I strike it, Fairies and Fusiliers, and all Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl Across my verse in the cla.s.sic way.

And, sir, be careful what you say; There are old-fas.h.i.+oned folk still like it.

AN OLD TWENTY-THIRD MAN

"Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, Marching below, and we still gulping wine?"

From the sad magic of his fragrant cup The red-faced old centurion started up, Cursed, battered on the table. "No," he said, "Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion's dead, Dead in the first year of this d.a.m.ned campaign-- The Legion's dead, dead, and won't rise again.

Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die, But we need pity also, you and I, Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss, Who live to see the Legion come to this, Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot, Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot.

O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, st.u.r.dy thigh!

Where are they now? G.o.d! watch it struggle by, The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine.

Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!"

"Strabo," said Gracchus, "you are strange tonight.

The Legion is the Legion; it's all right.

If these new men are slovenly, in your thinking, G.o.d d.a.m.n it! you'll not better them by drinking.

They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and hands.

The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands, And these same men before the autumn's fall Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul."

TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WAR-- FOR THE FOURTH TIME

It doesn't matter what's the cause, What wrong they say we're righting, A curse for treaties, bonds and laws, When we're to do the fighting!

And since we lads are proud and true, What else remains to do?

Lucasta, when to France your man Returns his fourth time, hating war, Yet laughs as calmly as he can And flings an oath, but says no more, That is not courage, that's not fear-- Lucasta he's a Fusilier, And his pride sends him here.

Let statesmen bl.u.s.ter, bark and bray, And so decide who started This b.l.o.o.d.y war, and who's to pay, But he must be stout-hearted, Must sit and stake with quiet breath, Playing at cards with Death.

Don't plume yourself he fights for you; It is no courage, love, or hate, But let us do the things we do; It's pride that makes the heart be great; It is not anger, no, nor fear-- Lucasta he's a Fusilier, And his pride keeps him here.

TWO FUSILIERS

And have we done with War at last?

Well, we've been lucky devils both, And there's no need of pledge or oath To bind our lovely friends.h.i.+p fast, By firmer stuff Close bound enough.

By wire and wood and stake we're bound, By Fricourt and by Festubert, By whipping rain, by the sun's glare, By all the misery and loud sound, By a Spring day, By Picard clay.

Show me the two so closely bound As we, by the red bond of blood, By friends.h.i.+p, blossoming from mud, By Death: we faced him, and we found Beauty in Death, In dead men breath.

TO ROBERT NICHOLS

(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: "I am just finis.h.i.+ng my 'Faun's Holiday.' I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.")

Here by a s...o...b..und river In sc.r.a.pen holes we s.h.i.+ver, And like old bitterns we Boom to you plaintively: Robert how can I rhyme Verses for your desire-- Sleek fauns and cherry-time, Vague music and green trees, Hot sun and gentle breeze, England in June attire, And life born young again, For your gay goatish brute Drunk with warm melody Singing on beds of thyme With red and rolling eye, All the Devonian plain, Lips dark with juicy stain, Ears hung with bobbing fruit?

Why should I keep him time?

Why in this cold and rime, Where even to dream is pain?

No, Robert, there's no reason: Cherries are out of season, Ice grips at branch and root, And singing birds are mute.

DEAD COW FARM

An ancient saga tells us how In the beginning the First Cow (For nothing living yet had birth But Elemental Cow on earth) Began to lick cold stones and mud: Under her warm tongue flesh and blood Blossomed, a miracle to believe: And so was Adam born, and Eve.

Here now is chaos once again, Primeval mud, cold stones and rain.

Here flesh decays and blood drips red, And the Cow's dead, the old Cow's dead.

GOLIATH AND DAVID

(FOR D.C.T., KILLED AT FRICOURT, MARCH, 1916)

Yet once an earlier David took Smooth pebbles from the brook: Out between the lines he went To that one-sided tournament, A shepherd boy who stood out fine And young to fight a Philistine Clad all in brazen mail. He swears That he's killed lions, he's killed bears, And those that scorn the G.o.d of Zion Shall perish so like bear or lion.

But ... the historian of that fight Had not the heart to tell it right.

Striding within javelin range, Goliath marvels at this strange Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.

David's clear eye measures the length; With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee, Poises a moment thoughtfully, And hurls with a long vengeful swing.

The pebble, humming from the sling Like a wild bee, flies a sure line For the forehead of the Philistine; Then ... but there comes a brazen clink, And quicker than a man can think Goliath's s.h.i.+eld parries each cast.

Clang! clang! and clang! was David's last.

Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye, Towering unhurt six cubits high.

Says foolish David, "d.a.m.n your s.h.i.+eld!

And d.a.m.n my sling! but I'll not yield."

He takes his staff of Mamre oak, A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke The skull of many a wolf and fox Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks.