Trench Ballads and Other Verses Part 7

I've heard the cat hath nine lives, The hen and worm I've seen, But a genuine, long eared, gas-proof mule Is the toughest thing they wean.

Each night he hauled the water-cart- (And to know what Water means, You have to see a trench-bound bunch When filling their canteens).

However, no digression now, But straightway to my story, And I'll paint that black mule white And crowned with a crown of glory.

We crowded 'round the faucets- On each, six waited turns- The thirstiest crew I ever knew- With the ingrowing thirst that burns.

And all was peace and quiet- The pause before the storm- When the distant, whirling, demon shriek Of the G. I. Cans took form.

And when the third one got our range, With haste, but dignity, We sought the dugouts 'cross the road, Calm, though precipitously.

But the fastest thing I've seen on legs, And I've seen the best, at that.

Was the water-mule when he took the road At a hundred in nothing flat.

Whether he headed for gay Paree- For Brussels or Berlin- We didn't stop to figure out- But he sure was headed in.

We only thought of our thirst next day, And a song we'd heard afar, Of the farm recruit who bade good-bye To his "mule with the old hee-haw."

Well, all that night they threw us gas And high explosive sh.e.l.ls, And four long hours we wore our masks, To ward the murderous smells.

And when the first white streak of dawn Told "Stand-to" was begun, We stumbled back and took our posts To wait our friend the Hun.

The Hun did not appear, but gas Thick clothed both hill and dale In clouds and sheets of dead-man's drab, And down in the deepest vale-

With perfect poise and nonchalance, Sang-froid and savoir-faire, Browsed that fool mule, capaciously, With never thought or care.

INFANTRY OF THE WORLD WAR.

They shall tell of the Arms resplendent- The men who dared the air; They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns Where the far horizons flare: They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs- Each rear and flanking drive- And the song of the Service of Supply, That kept them all alive.

And when they seem to have finished, And ye think that the chant is done, They will tell the tale of the tramping men In the sweat of a torrid sun.

They will tell the tale of the marching men Who plod the live-long night, To reach the crest at the break o' dawn When the Nations go to fight.

They will tell the tale of the tired men Beneath a straining load; Mile by mile with lunging step And gla.s.sy stare on the road.

They will tell the tale of the front-line trench, And the one cold meal at night, And the terrible song of the bursting sh.e.l.ls, And the flares' uncanny light.

They will tell the tale of the moving ranks When the zero hour lifts, And the khaki lines leap forward In the face of the steel-shod drifts.

Where the great shots split asunder, And clutter hill and plain With the weary bodies of the men Who may not march again.

And so for a wide World's wonder, And the ages yet to be, They will sing in deathless numbers The song of the Infantry.

They will slowly close the volume- The story fully told, And a tear shall fall on the cover, Whose letters are flaming gold.

THE FLOWERS OF FRANCE.

The flowers of France are blooming Upon this bright June day, The flowers of France are fragrant And smiling swing and sway, (For what is death and carnage A dozen miles away?)

The flowers of France are blooming Among the wheat and gra.s.s- The scarlet headed poppies That nod you as you pa.s.s, And the blue cornflowers' brilliant hue, And the daisies in a ma.s.s.

The flowers of France are blooming And beckoning in the breeze, And laughing in the suns.h.i.+ne, And bending to the bees, (But the wooden crosses in a row- Oh what know they of these?)

The flowers of France are blooming In every rainbow shade, And as a rainbow is an arch By tears of heaven made, I wonder if the flowers of France Are the tears that France has paid?

A FIRST-CLa.s.s PRIVATE.

_I haven't a worry or a care-_ _My mind's "at ease" and furled:_ _For I'm a First-cla.s.s Private,_ _And I'm Sitting on the World._

The Loot, before the whole platoon, He up and called me forth To drill my squad, "Squads east" and "west,"

Not mentioning south and north.

To drill my squad, "Squads 'round-about,"

For all the World to see- But I'm a First-cla.s.s Private and That's good enough for me.

The Loot he is a dandy man And all that kind of thing, And I know he wants to see how I A corporal's job could swing: But back here in a "rest town"

It just means dirty work, And _I_ must take the bawling-out For what the squad may s.h.i.+rk.

'Tis I they'd turn and eye with scorn If some gun wasn't clean; 'Tis I would play the wet nurse For a rookie _none_ could wean: And if a pair of frozen shoes Makes Smith miss reveille, It isn't Smith or "Sunny France,"

It's me, yes dammit, me.

So forth I take the Squad to drill, With ne'er a fault or slip; But a smile is in my glance, forsooth, And a jest is on my lip, Akidding with each friend o'mine- And the Loot was never fain To try to make a non-com Of Private Me again.

_Oh nothing, oh no nothing_ _May your resolution shake,_ _When you're a First-cla.s.s Private,_ _And you know you're Sitting Jake._

BIRDS OF BATTLE.

Keats sings in peerless stanzas To the lovely Nightingale- And Sh.e.l.ley tells of the Skylark Above the summer gale- But I to the Birds of Battle Needs lift my numbers frail.

For far by the out-flung wires, Where the sh.e.l.l-torn tree stumps stand, And over the barren, hole-strewn tracks Of the wastes of No Man's Land, In the morning light and the black of night, The Birds of Battle stand.

No shrieking shots may quell them- Nor gloom nor storm nor rain, As out of the crash or stillness A wondrous, shrill refrain Cuts clear and glad and lithesome Above the death-strewn plain.