Trench Ballads and Other Verses Part 8

The weary heavens welcome, And echo back the song, And weary soldiers linger, And pause to listen long To the one glad cry in a war-torn sky, That holds so much of wrong.

ONLY FOR YOU.

The torturous hike up the hill road, Plowing through snow and mud; The poor weary arches breaking- The socks that are wet with our blood: The terrible, binding, burning strap That's cutting our shoulder through- And our parched lips stammer, "My Country, For you and only for you."

The slight and the slur and the nagging We must take from a rowdy or cad; And we simply salute and say "Yes sir,"

And pretend that we never feel mad: Though our heart is a forest of hatred- And justice seems hidden from view- And we mutter, "For you, oh my Country- For you, yea, and only for you."

When all evening long the guns' reddened glares Turn night into h.e.l.lish day, Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cut The drab of the dawn's growing gray: When over the top we are starting again- Full knowing the thing that we do- We murmur, "For you, oh my Country- For you, aye and only for you."

COOTIES.

Some people call 'em Totos- Some people call 'em Lice; Some people call 'em several things That really aren't nice; But the Soldier calls 'em "Cooties,"

So "Cooties" must suffice.

We've met the dear Mosquito- We've met the festive Fly- It seems to me we've seen the Flea That jumpeth far and high; Yea, we have known various bugs- Though not the reason why.

But when you're in the trenches And cannot take a bath, As one canteen of water Is all one day one hath, You raise the comely Cooties- Who raise, in turn, your wrath.

You can't escape the Cooties By day nor yet by night.

No G. I. Can alarms them, Nor other sound of fight.

Not even Gas affects them- Which doesn't seem just right.

You may not eat, you may not sleep, You may not bat an eye: You may not duck a six-inch sh.e.l.l That's singing gaily by, But that a Cootie, like the Poor, _Is with you-very nigh._

They bite you singly and in squads, They have a whole parade; They form a skirmish line and sweep Across each hill and glade; But seek their dugouts when you think Your grip is firmly laid.

It does no good to curse 'em- They cannot hear or talk.

It does no good to chase 'em- To still-hunt or to stalk.

The only thing is hand-grenades, At which, 'tis said, they balk.

Oh Cooties, little Cooties, You have no sense of shame; You are not fair, you are not square, You do not play the game- But east and west and south and north Is spread afar your fame.

OLD FUSEE.

(Rifle number 366915., Springfield model 1903.)

I really hate to leave you, Old Fusee- Where the land is scarred and peeled, And the broken battlefield Bears its red and deadly yield- Wearily.

I really hate to leave you, Old Fusee- To the wind and dew and rain Of a shorn and shotted plain, Till stranger hands again Discover thee.

I really hate to leave you, Old Fusee- To the clinging, clogging dust- To the all-destroying crust Of a clawing, gnawing rust- Unmercifully.

I really hate to leave you, Old Fusee- But they've plugged me good and hard, So I quit you, trusty pard, As I creep back rather marred, To old Blightee.

I really hate to leave you, Old Fusee- With your bore a brilliant sheen, And your metals black and clean, Where your brown striped stock and lean Gleams tigerishly.

I really hate to leave you, Old Fusee- For the wanton weather's hate, And careless hands to desecrate Barrel, bolt and b.u.t.t and plate, Unthinkingly.

I really hate to leave you, Old Fusee- And I bear a double pain As I pause to turn again Where I left you on the plain, Unwillingly.

THE COLORS OF BLIGHTY.

_The shades of red an' white an' blue_ _Mean rather more to me an' you,_ _Than just parades an' bands an' such_ _And hollerin' loud an' talking much._

The wounds are dark and red- All jagged-red in Blighty: And untamed hearts are red Where, stretching bed on bed, Lies lax each weary head, In Blighty.

The walls are blank and white- All fresh and white in Blighty: And cheeks are gaunt and white, Where through the endless night They fight the second fight, In Blighty.

Outside the skies are blue- Soft, cloud-flecked blue o'er Blighty But clear, relentless blue Of purpose steeled anew Lies there revealed to you In every eye in Blighty.

_The shades of red an' white an' blue_ _Mean rather more to me an' you,_ _Than just parades an' bands an' such_ _And hollerin' loud an' talking much._

WHEN NURSE COMES IN.

(Convalescent stage.)

The stories sure are rich and rare, They'd strike you blind, they'd turn your hair, They're dark as coal down in the bin- Till Nurse comes in.

The language is an awful hue, Astreak with crimson shades and blue; 'Twould scorch a mammoth's leather skin- Till Nurse comes in.

Words run the gamut of the trench- They beat old Mustard Gas for stench, They rise with oscillating din- Till Nurse comes in.

The cussin's quaint and loud and strong, Imported stuff, that don't belong In dictionaries fat or thin- Till Nurse comes in.