Ballads of a Bohemian Part 27

And now, in default of something better, I have bundled together this ma.n.u.script, and have added to it a few more verses, written in hospitals. Let it represent me. If I can find a publisher for it, _tant mieux_. If not, I will print it at my own cost, and any one who cares for a copy can write to me--

Stephen Poore,

12 _bis_, Rue des Pet.i.ts Moineaux,

Paris.

Michael

"There's something in your face, Michael, I've seen it all the day; There's something quare that wasn't there when first ye wint away. . . ."

"It's just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right, That puts the stiffinin' in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight. . . ."

"There's something in your eyes, Michael, an' how they stare and stare-- You're lookin' at me now, me boy, as if I wasn't there. . . ."

"It's just the things I've seen, mother, the sights that come and come, A bit o' broken, b.l.o.o.d.y pulp that used to be a chum. . . ."

"There's something on your heart, Michael, that makes ye wake at night, And often when I hear ye moan, I trimble in me fright. . . ."

"It's just a man I killed, mother, a mother's son like me; It seems he's always hauntin' me, he'll never let me be. . . ."

"But maybe he was bad, Michael, maybe it was right To kill the inimy you hate in fair and honest fight. . . ."

"I did not hate at all, mother; he never did me harm; I think he was a lad like me, who worked upon a farm. . . ."

"And what's it all about, Michael; why did you have to go, A quiet, peaceful lad like you, and we were happy so? . . ."

"It's thim that's up above, mother, it's thim that sits an' rules; We've got to fight the wars they make, it's us as are the fools. . . ."

"And what will be the end, Michael, and what's the use, I say, Of fightin' if whoever wins it's us that's got to pay? . . ."

"Oh, it will be the end, mother, when lads like him and me, That sweat to feed the ones above, decide that we'll be free. . . ."

"And when will that day come, Michael, and when will fightin' cease, And simple folks may till their soil and live and love in peace? . . ."

"It's coming soon and soon, mother, it's nearer every day, When only men who work and sweat will have a word to say; When all who earn their honest bread in every land and soil Will claim the Brotherhood of Man, the Comradeship of Toil; When we, the Workers, all demand: 'What are we fighting for?' . . .

Then, then we'll end that stupid crime, that devil's madness--War."

The Wife

"Tell Annie I'll be home in time To help her with her Christmas-tree."

That's what he wrote, and hark! the chime Of Christmas bells, and where is he?

And how the house is dark and sad, And Annie's sobbing on my knee!

The page beside the candle-flame With cruel type was overfilled; I read and read until a name Leapt at me and my heart was stilled: My eye crept up the column--up Unto its hateful heading: _Killed_.

And there was Annie on the stair: "And will he not be long?" she said.

Her eyes were bright and in her hair She'd twined a bit of riband red; And every step was daddy's sure, Till tired out she went to bed.

And there alone I sat so still, With staring eyes that did not see; The room was desolate and chill, And desolate the heart of me; Outside I heard the news-boys shrill: "Another Glorious Victory!"

A victory. . . . Ah! what care I?

A thousand victories are vain.

Here in my ruined home I cry From out my black despair and pain, I'd rather, rather d.a.m.ned defeat, And have my man with me again.

They talk to us of pride and power, Of Empire vast beyond the sea; As here beside my hearth I cower, What mean such words as these to me?

Oh, will they lift the clouds that low'r, Or light my load in years to be?

What matters it to us poor folk?

Who win or lose, it's we who pay.

Oh, I would laugh beneath the yoke If I had _him_ at home to-day; One's home before one's country comes: Aye, so a million women say.

"Hush, Annie dear, don't sorrow so."

(How can I tell her?) "See, we'll light With tiny star of purest glow Each little candle pink and white."

(They make mistakes. I'll tell myself I did not read that name aright.) Come, dearest one; come, let us pray Beside our gleaming Christmas-tree; Just fold your little hands and say These words so softly after me: "G.o.d pity mothers in distress, And little children fatherless."

_"G.o.d pity mothers in distress, And little children fatherless."_

What's that?--a step upon the stair; A shout!--the door thrown open wide!

My hero and my man is there, And Annie's leaping by his side. . . .

The room reels round, I faint, I fall. . . .

"O G.o.d! Thy world is glorified."

Victory Stuff

What d'ye think, lad; what d'ye think, As the roaring crowds go by?

As the banners flare and the bra.s.ses blare And the great guns rend the sky?

As the women laugh like they'd all gone mad, And the champagne gla.s.ses clink: Oh, you're grippin' me hand so tightly, lad, I'm a-wonderin': what d'ye think?

D'ye think o' the boys we used to know, And how they'd have topped the fun?

Tom and Charlie, and Jack and Joe-- Gone now, every one.

How they'd have cheered as the joy-bells chime, And they grabbed each girl for a kiss!

And now--they're rottin' in Flanders slime, And they gave their lives--for _this_.