Ballads of a Bohemian Part 28

Or else d'ye think of the many a time We wished we too was dead, Up to our knees in the freezin' grime, With the fires of h.e.l.l overhead; When the youth and the strength of us sapped away, And we cursed in our rage and pain?

And yet--we haven't a word to say. . . .

We're glad. We'd do it again.

I'm scared that they pity us. Come, old boy, Let's leave them their flags and their fuss.

We'd surely be hatin' to spoil their joy With the sight of such wrecks as us.

Let's slip away quietly, you and me, And we'll talk of our chums out there: _You with your eyes that'll never see, Me that's wheeled in a chair._

Was It You?

"Hullo, young Jones! with your tie so gay And your pen behind your ear; Will you mark my cheque in the usual way?

For I'm overdrawn, I fear."

Then you look at me in a manner bland, As you turn your ledger's leaves, And you hand it back with a soft white hand, And the air of a man who grieves. . . .

_"Was it you, young Jones, was it you I saw (And I think I see you yet) With a live bomb gripped in your grimy paw And your face to the parapet?

With your lips asnarl and your eyes gone mad With a fury that thrilled you through. . . .

Oh, I look at you now and I think, my lad, Was it you, young Jones, was it you?_

"Hullo, young Smith, with your well-fed look And your coat of dapper fit, Will you recommend me a decent book With nothing of War in it?"

Then you smile as you polish a finger-nail, And your eyes serenely roam, And you suavely hand me a thrilling tale By a man who stayed at home.

_"Was it you, young Smith, was it you I saw In the battle's storm and stench, With a roar of rage and a wound red-raw Leap into the reeking trench?

As you stood like a fiend on the firing-shelf And you stabbed and hacked and slew. . . .

Oh, I look at you and I ask myself, Was it you, young Smith, was it you?_

"Hullo, old Brown, with your ruddy cheek And your tummy's rounded swell, Your garden's looking jolly _chic_ And your kiddies awf'ly well.

Then you beam at me in your cheery way As you swing your water-can; And you mop your brow and you blithely say: 'What about golf, old man?'

_"Was it you, old Brown, was it you I saw Like a bull-dog stick to your gun, A cursing devil of fang and claw When the rest were on the run?

Your eyes aflame with the battle-hate. . . .

As you sit in the family pew, And I see you rising to pa.s.s the plate, I ask: Old Brown, was it you?_

"Was it me and you? Was it you and me?

(Is that grammar, or is it not?) Who groveled in filth and misery, Who gloried and groused and fought?

Which is the wrong and which is the right?

Which is the false and the true?

The man of peace or the man of fight?

Which is the ME and the YOU?"

V

Les Grands Mutiles

_I saw three wounded of the war: And the first had lost his eyes; And the second went on wheels and had No legs below the thighs; And the face of the third was featureless, And his mouth ran cornerwise.

So I made a rhyme about each one, And this is how my fancies run._

The Sightless Man

Out of the night a crash, A roar, a rampart of light; A flame that leaped like a lash, Searing forever my sight; Out of the night a flash, Then, oh, forever the Night!

Here in the dark I sit, I who so loved the sun; Supple and strong and fit, In the dark till my days be done; Aye, that's the h.e.l.l of it, Stalwart and twenty-one.

Marie is stanch and true, Willing to be my wife; Swears she has eyes for two . . .

Aye, but it's long, is Life.

What is a lad to do With his heart and his brain at strife?

There now, my pipe is out; No one to give me a light; I grope and I grope about.

Well, it is nearly night; Sleep may resolve my doubt, Help me to reason right. . . .

(_He sleeps and dreams._)

I heard them whispering there by the bed . . .

Oh, but the ears of the blind are quick!

Every treacherous word they said Was a stab of pain and my heart turned sick.

Then lip met lip and they looked at me, Sitting bent by the fallen fire, And they laughed to think that I couldn't see; But I felt the flame of their hot desire.

He's helping Marie to work the farm, A dashing, upstanding chap, they say; And look at me with my flabby arm, And the fat of sloth, and my face of clay-- Look at me as I sit and sit, By the side of a fire that's seldom lit, Sagging and weary the livelong day, When every one else is out on the field, Sowing the seed for a golden yield, Or tossing around the new-mown hay. . . .

Oh, the shimmering wheat that frets the sky, Gold of plenty and blue of hope, I'm seeing it all with an inner eye As out of the door I grope and grope.

And I hear my wife and her lover there, Whispering, whispering, round the rick, Mocking me and my sightless stare, As I fumble and stumble everywhere, Slapping and tapping with my stick; Old and weary at thirty-one, Heartsick, wishing it all was done.

Oh, I'll tap my way around to the byre, And I'll hear the cows as they chew their hay; There at least there is none to tire, There at least I am not in the way.

And they'll look at me with their velvet eyes And I'll stroke their flanks with my woman's hand, And they'll answer to me with soft replies, And somehow I fancy they'll understand.

And the horses too, they know me well; I'm sure that they pity my wretched lot, And the big fat ram with the jingling bell . . .

Oh, the beasts are the only friends I've got.

And my old dog, too, he loves me more, I think, than ever he did before.

Thank G.o.d for the beasts that are all so kind, That know and pity the helpless blind!

Ha! they're coming, the loving pair.

My hand's a-shake as my pipe I fill.

What if I steal on them unaware With a reaping-hook, to kill, to kill? . . .

I'll do it . . . they're there in the mow of hay, I hear them saying: "He's out of the way!"

Hark! how they're kissing and whispering. . . .