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Les diagrammes suivsnts illustrent la mithoda. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 MKROCOPV RBOUITION TBT CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) A >1PPLIED ItVMGE Ir 1653 East Main Street RochesKr, New York 14609 USA (716) 482 - 0300 - Phon« (716) 288- 5989 -Fa» SOLDIER SONGS SOLDIER SONGS BY PATRICK MAC GILL TORONTO : WILLIAM BRIGGS LONDON : HERBERT JENKINS LTD. ffi fig © ffi MCMXVII 5^« 1^1? fn^^r !f WILLIAM BMNDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTSM, PLTMOCTH, ENGLAND. 1997 My dear H. J., You have often asked me what are the favourite songs of the soldier on Active Service, the rhymed hues which give expression to his soul. It is difficult to give an answer, the mere words are " dud " shells, which drop harmlessly to earth close to theh* objective. The soldier and his song cannot be separated from their surroundings. Let me explain and quote in illustra- tion an incident which occurred a few weeks ago. A certain regiment, which glories in the name of the " Old Diehards," sent a 7 8 DEDICATION draft to the " London Irish," and the new-comers attached to our battaUon became part of the units' fighting strength. Sixty per cent of the draft were " old sweats," men who had fought well on many a bloody field, and added by prowess of arms numerous honours to their own beloved regiment. They had shared their last crust with hearty comrades in the retreat from Mons, they battled side by side with these comrades on the Mame, and wept over their graves by the Aisne. The circumstances of war strengthen the esfrit-de-corps of a soldier, and I am not far wrong in stating that pride of regiment in an " old sweat " is much . .onger than love of country. On the evening of their arrival these veterans DEDICATION 9 sat in their huts and sang the song of the " Old Diehards." Mere doggerel the verse, the words fatuous, and the singing not above reproach. But the song touched the hearts of the audience ; the Hsteners were " old sweats " who had songs of their own. As I hstened I thought of the children of Israel, who hung their harps on the willows and mourned for Babylon. The feeling engendered in a man when a futile shell drops close to him and fails to explode is difi&cult to make manifest in cold words; but it is even more difficult to give an adequate idea of the impression created in the hearts of those who listened to the song of the " Old Diehards." The soldiers have songs of their own, songs of the march, the trench. '*» DEDICATION the biUet and battle. Their origin is lost ; the songs have arisen like old folk- tales, spontaneous choruses that voice the moods of a moment and of many moments which are monotonously alike. Most of the verse is of no import ; the crowd has no sense of poetic values ; it is the singing alone which gives expres- sion to the soldier's soul. " Tipperary " means home when it is sung in a shell- shattered billet, on the long march " Tipperary " is Berlin, the goal of high emprise and great adventures. Let me speak of a few songs which we sing. This is our idea of the peace which may follow our years of war. "' When the war is over We're going to live in Dover, When the war is over we're going to have a spree. DEDICATION We're going to have a fight In the middle of the night With the whizz-bangs a-flying in the air." It Though we cannot picture a peace which will be in no way associated with high explosives, we can dream in the midst of the conflict of the desirable things that civil Ufe would bring us. What time we waited for Kitchener's Army in Flanders and lost all hope of ever seeing it, this song was sung up and down the trenches by the Territorials and Regulars. " Who are the boys that fighting's for. Who are the lads to win the war, It's good old Kitchener's Army. And every man of them's tr& bon. They never lost a trench since Mons, Because they never saw one." la DEDICATION Here are a few others which have echoed in billets and dug-outs from Le Harve to the Somme, and which have accom- panied the wild abandon of drinking nights in Poperinghe and Bethune. THE SOLDIER'S LETTER " I've lost my rifle and bayonet, I've lost my puU-throiigh too, I've lost the socks that you sent me That lasted the whole winter through, I've lost the razor that shaved me, I've lost my four-by-two, I've lost my hold-all and now I've got damn all Since I've lost you." SING ME TO SLEEP Sing me to sleep where bullets fall. Let me forget the war and all ; Damp is my dug-out, cold my feet, Nothing but bully and biscuits to eat. Over the sandbags hehnets you'll find Corpses in front and corpses behind. DEDICATION 13 Chonu. Far, far from Yprcs I long to be, Where German snipers can't get at me, Think of me crouching where the worms creep, Waiting for the sergeant to sing me to sleep. Sing me to sleep in some old shed. The rats all running around my head. Stretched out upon my waterproof, Dodging the raindrops through the roof. Dreaming of home and nights in the West, Somebody's overseas boots on my chest. The Tommy is a singing soldier ; he sings to the village patronne even when ordering food, and his song is in French. " Voulez vous donnez moi Si'l vous plait Pain et beurre Et caf^ au lait." He serenades the maiden at the village pump. 14 DEDICATION " Aprte la guerre fini Soldat Anglais partee, M'selle Frongsay boko pleury, Apris la guerre fini." The soldier has in reality very few songs ; he has many choruses which get worth from the mood that inspires them and the emotions which they evoke. None will outlast the turmoil in which they origin- ated; having weathered the leaden storms of war, their vibrant strains will be choked and smothered in atmospheres of Peace. " These 'ere songs are no good in England," my friend Rifleman Bill Teake remarks. " They 'ave too much guts in them." When I said I wanted to dedicate " Soldier Songs " to you I did not then anticipate inflicting upon you so lengthy DEDICATION ,j a dedicatory letter ; but when writing of the men of the British armies, old and new, I find it difficult to be concise. Yours, Patrick MacGill. Lammas Day, 1916. CONTENTS Dbdication . Arm Loos. The OLE Sweats La BASste Road A Lament . The Gums , The Nioht BsroKE «nd the Night After THE Charge It's a Far, Far Cry Ofk Duty . I Orr Go Out at Night-time The Cross . The Tommy's Lament Marching . In Fairyland Spoils or War Before the Charge » 17 7 »5 3» 3a 36 37 39 41 43 45 46 48 SO 52 ■*■*• I ■ 11 i8 CONTENTS Letters The Everyday of War The London Lads . The Little Brown Bird The Listening-Patrol A Vision A.O. 1916 The Hipe The Trench On Active Service . Billets In the Morning To Margaret Death and the Fairies The Return Red Wine . The Dawn . The Fly Out Yonder I Will Go Back The Farmer's Boy . The Dug- Out rACK 53 S9 63 65 67 70 73 75 77 79 82 84 88 89 90 92 94 96 97 99 102 106 CONTENTS Straf" That Fly Thk Star-Shbll ArriR THK War A Soldier's Prayer DuG-OuT Proverbs . Matey 19 rxuB 108 no III 113 116 119 SOLDIER SONGl AFTER LOOS {Cafi Pierre le Blanc, Nouex Us Mines, Michaelmas Eve, 191 SO Was it only yesterday Lusty comrades marched away ? Now they're covered up with clay. .-- 1 > v I Seven glasses used to be Called for six good mates and me — Now^we only call for three. Little crosses neat and white. Looking lonely every night. Tell of comrades killed in fight. 23 '.A H AFTER LOOS Hca'ty fellows they have been. And no more will they be seen Drinking wine in Nouex les Mines. Lithe and supple lads were they, Marching merrily away — Was it only yesterday ? ! THE OLE SWEATS (u/ Birmingham War Hospital, Rubtrry, Birmingham.) We'ke goin* easy now a bit, aU dressed in blighty blue,* We've 'eld the trenches eighteen months and copped some packets too. We've met the Boches on the Mame and fought them on the Aisne, We broke 'em up at New Chapelle and 'ere we are again. The ole sweats — All that is left of the ole sweats. More went away than are with us to-day. Gawd ! but we miss 'em, the ole sweats. * Hospital uniform. 25 .11. ■ 1 36 THE OLE SWEATS And now that we've a blighty one* we don't know what to do ! — Just swing the lead ; the Darby boys will see the bisness through, They'll 'ave a bit o' carry on, o' fightin' and o' fun. They'll 'ave the ribbons when they end the work that we begun. The ole sweats — Devils for fun were the ole sweats, In love or a scrap sure they always went nap. They 'adn't 'arf guts had the ole sweats. But the old sweats they never die, they only fade away And others come to take their place, 'ot on the doin's they ; * A blighty one. A wound which brings a soldier back t > England. THE OLE SWEATS 37 They're drillin' up from day to day, at it at dusk and dawn, But they'll need it all to fill the shoes of blokes that now are gone ; The ole sweats. The ole daisy-shovers,* the ole sweats. The new 'uns it's said they are smart on parade. But, Gawd, there iS none like the ole sweats. i We're out 't for duration now and do not care a cuss. There's beer to spare at dinner time and afters f now for us. But if our butty's still were out in Flanders raisin' Cain, We'd weather through with those we knew on bully beef again. * Daisy$hovers. The dead ; " ' e men who lie under the ground, shoving the daisies up with their toes." t Afters = confiture. J^ aS THE OLE SWEATS The ole sweats — The grub it was skimp with the ole sweats. But if rashuns was small 'twas the same for us all, Same for the 'ole of the ole sweats. n Well, if you want a sooveneer, a bit of blighty blue, There's empty tunic sleeves to spare, a trousers 1^ or two. And some day when you see us stand on Charing Cross parade, Present a boot before us just to 'elp us at our trade. The ole sweats — Tuppence a shine with the ole sweats. So you'll give us a show when you see us, we know, Us that is left of the ole sweats. LA BASSEE ROAD {Cuinchy, 1915.) You'll see from the La Bass6e Road, on any sununer's day, The children herding nanny-goats, the women making hay. YouTl see the soldiers, khaki clad, in column and platoon, Come swinging up U Bass^ Road from bUlets in Bethune. There's hay to save and com to cut, but harder work by far Awaits the soldier boys who reap the harvest fields of war. Youll see them swinging up the road where women work at hay. The straight long road,— La Basste Road,— on any summer day. 29 I LITTERS When slowly, slowly dying. God I Fifteen hours in dying I He lay a maimed thing dying, alone upon the plain. We often write to mothers, to sweethearts and to wives. And tell how those who loved them have given up their lives ; If we're not always truthful, our lies are always kind, Our letters lie to cheer them, to solace and to cheer them, Oh : aitything to cheer them.— the women left behind. THE EVERYDAY OF WAR {Hospital^ VtrsaiUtSt Novimbtr, 191$.) A HAND b crippled, a leg is gone, And fighting's past for me, The empty hours crawl slowly on ; How they flew where I used to be I Empty hours in the empty dajrs, And empty months crawl by. The brown battalions go their way. And here at the Base I lie ! I dream of the grasses the dew-drops drench. And the earth with the soft rain wet, I dream of the curve of a winding trench, And a loop-holed parapet ; S9 it 6o THE EVERYDAY OF WAR The Sister wraps my bandage again. Oh, gentle the sister's hand. But the smart of a restless longing, vain. She cannot understand. At night I can see the trench once more. And the dug-out candle Ut, The shadows it throws on wall and floor Form and flutter and flit. Over the trenches the night-shades fall And the questing bullet pings. And a brazier glows by the dug-out wall. Where the bubbling mess-tin sings. I dream of the long, white, sleepy night Where the fir-lined roadway runs Up to the shell-scarred fields of fight And the loud-voiced earnest guns ; THE EVERYDAY OF WAR The rolling limber and jolting cart The khaki-clad platoon, The eager eye and the stout young heart, And the silver-sandalled moon. 6i But here I'm kept to the narrow bed, A maimed and broken thing — Never a long day's march ahead Where brown battalions swing. But though time drags by like a wounded snake Where the young life's lure's denied, A good stiff lip for the old pal's sake. And the old battalion's pride ! I The ward-fire bums in a cheery way, A vision in every flame. There are books to read and games to play But oh 1 for an old, old game. IS ill 6« THE EVERYDAY OF WAR With glancing bay-net and trusty gun And wild blood, bursting free I— But an ann is crippled, a leg is gone. And the game's no more for me. THE LONDON LADS ( IVAile stamHmg to arms in MUfSt La Btuvritrt, July, 191 5.) Along the road in the evening the brown battalions wind, V^th the trenches' threat of death before, the peaceful homes behind ; And luck is with you or luck is not as the ticket of fate is drawn. The boys go up to the trench at dusk, but who will come back at dawn ? \ The winds come soft of an evening o'er the fields of golden grain. The good sharp scythes will cut the com ere we come back again ; 63 64 THE LONDON LADS The village girls wiU tend the grain and mill the Autumn yield While we go forth to other work upon another field. They'll cook the big brown Flemish loaves and tend the oven fire. And while tiiey do the daily toil of bam and bench and byre They'll think of hearty fellows gone and sigh for them in vain — The billet boys, the London lads who won't come back again. THE LITTLE BROWN BIRD There's a little brown bird in the spinney, With a little gold cap on its head, Gold as the gold of a guinea, And its legs they are wobbly and red. Myself. " Little brown bird, is your singing Over and finished and done ? " Bird. " I wait for the fairy who's bringing Spring and its showers and its sun." Myself. " What will you do in December ? " Bird. "Do? What I'm doing just now: Here on the first of November, Shivering mute on a bough." « 65 66 THE LITTLE BROWN BIRD Myself. "But April will find you quite cheery I" I said with a pang in my breast. Bird. " In April I'll get me a dearie And help her to fashion a nest " THE LISTENING-PATROL With my bosom friend, Bill, armed ready to kUl, I go over the top as a listening-patrol. Good watch we will keep if we don't fall asleep. As we huddle for warmth in a shell-shovelled hole. In the battle-lit night all the plain is alight. Where the grasshoppers chirp to the frogs in the pond. And the star-shells are seen bursting red, blue, and green, O'er the enemy's trench just a stone's-throw beyond. 67 M THE L!STENINGPATROL The grasses hang damp o'er each wee glow- worm lamp That is placed on the ground for a fairy camp-fire, And the night-breezes wheel where the mice squeak and squeal, Ifaldng sounds like the enemy cutting our wire. Here are thousands of toads in their ancient abodes. Each toad on its stool and each stool in its place. And a robin sits by with a vigilant eye On a grim garden-spider's wife washing her face. Now Bill never sees any marvels like these. When I speak of the sights he looks up with amaze. THE LISTENING-PATROL 69 And he smothers a yawn, saying, " Wake me at dawn," While the Dustman from Nod sprinkles dust in his eyes. But these things you'll see if you come out with me, And sit by my side in a shell-shovelled hole. Where the fairy-bells croon to the ivory moon When the soldier is out on a Ustening-patrol. A VISION This is a tale of the trenches Told when the shadows creep Over the bay and traverse And poppies fall asleep. When the men stand still to their rifles. And the star-shells riot and flare, Flung from the sandbag alleys. Into the ghostly air. They see in the growing grasses That rise from the beaten zone Their poor unforgotten comrades Wasting in skin and bone, 70 A VISION 71 And the grtst creeps silently o'er them Where comrade and foe are blent In God's own peaceful churchyard When the fire of their might is spent. But the men who stand to their rifles See all the dead on the plain Rise at the hour of midnight To fight their battles again. Each to his place in the combat, All to the parts they played With bayonet, brisk to its purpose, Rifle and hind grenade. Shadow races with shadow. Steel comes quick on steel, Swords that are deadly silent And shadows that do not feel. yt A VISION And shades recoil and recover And fade away as they iaH In the space between the trenches. And the watchers see it all. ill I!! AD. 19x6 The sky shov- c' * ^"h^i ^\r roof has been. But the slar t > gli* ar .' :iOTic he dimmer, Where tho. iM>., ? o. cc .c^ycd ai ' 'at ruins seen. But the -TaZ'e'. :!)••'' with a r. beery glimmer, And the old life gcrs anJ he new life fills The scenes of many ^ peasant story, And the bursting shells on the sentried hills Whisper of death but shout of glory I Gutted and ripped the stricken earth. Where the bones of the restless dead are showing; But the great earth breathes of life ad birth. And ruin shrinks from the blossoms blowing. 73 74 A.D. I9i6 The old life fails, but the new life comes Over the ruins scarred and hoaiy, Though the thunder of guns and the roll of drums But make for death while they shout of glory. THE HIPE " What do you do with your rifle, son ? " I clean it every day. And rub it with an oily rag to keep the rust away; I slope, present, and port the thing when sweating on parade. I strop my razor on the sling ; the bayonet stand is made For me to hang my mirror on. I often use it, too. As handle for the dixie, sir, and lug around the stew. " But did you ever fire it, son ? " Just once, but never more. 75 ■ r« THE HIPE I fired it at a Gennan trench, and when my work waa o'er The sexgeant down the barrel glanced, and then he said to me, " Your hipe* is dirty. Penalty is seven days' C.B. I " Hipe, rcfimental ilang far « rifle THE TRENCH The long trench, twisting, turning, wanders wayward as a river Through the poppy-flowers Idooming in the grasses dewy wet. The buttercups sit shyly and the daisns nod and quiver. Where the bright defiant bayonets rim the sandbagged parapet, In the peaceful dawn the trenches hokl a menace and a threat. The last faint evening streamer touches heaven with its finger. The vast night's starry l^on sends its first lone herald star, 77 7l THE TRENCH Around the bay and traverse little twilight colours linger And incense-laden breezes come in crooning from afar. To where above the sandbags gleam the steely iangsof war. All the night the frogs go chuckle, all the day the birds are singing In the pond beside the meadow, by the roadway poplar-lined. In the field between the trenches are a million blossoms springing 'Twixt the grass oi silver bayonets where the lines of battle vnnn Where man has manned the trenches for the maiming of his kind. ON ACTIVE SERVICE For the Moke on Active Service, w'en 'e goes across the sea, 'E*8 sure to stand in terror of the things 'e doesn't see, A 'and grenade or mortar as it leaves the other side You can see an' 'ear it comin', so you simply steps aside. The aeroplane above you may go droppin' bombs a bit. But lyin' in your dug-out you're unlucky if you're 'it. W'en the breezes fills your trenches with hasfixiatin' gas. 79 Mli le ON ACTIVE SERVICE You puts on your respirator an' allows the stufi to pass. Wen you're up against a feller with a bayonet long an' keen, Just 'ave purchase of your weapon an' you'll drill the beggar clean. Wen man and 'oss is chargin' you, upon your knees you kneel, An' catch the 'oss's breastbone with an inch or two of steel. It's sure to end its canter, an' as the creature stops The rider pitches forward an' you catch 'im as 'e drops. It's w'en 'e sees 'is danger, an* 'e knows 'is way about That a bloke is damned unlucky if e's knocked completely out. ON ACTIVE SERVICE 8i But out on Active Service there are dangers ever ywh ei^, The shrapnel shell and bullet that comes on you unaware, The saucy little rifle is a perky little maid. An' w'en you've got 'er message you 'ave done your last parade. The four-point-five will seek you from some distant leafy wood, An' taps you on the napper an' you're out of step for good. From ihB gun vdthin the spinney to the sniper up a tree There are terrors waitin' Tommy in the things 'e doesn't see. ^IP I i BILLETS Our old battalion billets still. Parades as usual go on, We buckle in with right good wiU And daily our equipment don As if we meant to fight, but no ! The guns are booming through the air. The trenches call us on, but oh I We don't go there, we don't go there ! At night the stars are shining bright The old world voice is whispering near, We've heard it when the moon was Ught, And London's streets were very dear ; 83 BILLZTS But dearer now they are, sweetheart. The buses running to the Strand,— But we're so far, so far apart. Each lonely in a different l^d. But. dear, with sentiment aside (The candle dwindles to the cheese*) I wish the sea were not so wide When distance brings such thoughts as these. One glance to see the foreign sky. One look to note the stars o'erhead. Sweet thoughts to you. sweetheart, and I Turn in to billet bam. and bed. * TIm Old SwmU fiubioa mohow from diMsa: IN THE MORNING {Loot, 1915.) ! The firefly haunts were lighted yet, As we scaled the top of the parapet ; But the East grew pale to another fire. As our bayonets gleamed by the foeman's wire; And the sky was tinged with gold and grey, And under our feet the dead men lay. Stiff by the loop-holed barricade ; Food of the bomb and the hand-grenade ; Still In the slushy pool and mud — Ah I the path we came was a path of blood, When we went to Loos in the morning. 84 IN THE MORNING tf A little grey church at the foot of a hill. With powdered gUat on the window-eill. The ihell-ecarred stone and the broken tile, Littered the chancel, nave and aisle — Broken the altar and smashed the pyx, And the rubble covered the crucifix ; This we saw when the charge was done. And the gas-clouds paled in the rising sun, As we entered Loos in the morning. The dead men lay on the shell-scan^d plain. Where Death and the Autunm held their reign- Like banded ghosts in the heavens grey The smoke of the powder paled away ; Where riven and rent the spinney trees Shivered and shook in the sullen breeze, MiatOCOPY RBOWTION TIST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) Its \2B 135 13.6 |4.0 1 ■ 25 1 2.2 2.0 1.8 ^ /APPLIED IIVMGE I ^^ 16S3 East Main Street B^a Rochester, New York 14609 USA ^B (716) 482 - 0300 -Phone ^S (716) 288 - 5989 - Fox iMW 86 IN THE MORNING And there, where the trench through the graveyard wound, The dead men's bones stuck over the ground By the road to Loos in the morning. The turret towers that stood in the air. Sheltered a foeman sniper there— They found, who fell to the sniper's aim. A field of death on the field of fame ; And stiff in khaki the boys were laid To the sniper's toll at the barricade. But the quick went clattering through the town. Shot at the sniper and brought hun down, As we entered Loos in the morning. The dead men lay on the cellar stair, Toll of the bomb that found them there. IN THE MORNING 87 In the street men fell as a bullock drops. Sniped from the fringe of Hulluch copse. And the choking fumes of the deadly shell Curtained the place where our comrades fell. This we saw when the charge was done And the East blushed red to the rising sun In the town of Loos in the morning. TO MARGARET If we forget the Fairies, And tread upon their rings, God will perchance forget us, And think of other things. When we forget you, Fairies, Who guard our spirits' light : God will forget the morrow. And Day forget the Night. i li! 88 DEATH AND THE FAIRIES Before I joined the Army I lived in Donegal, Where every night the Fairies Would hold their carnival. But now I'm out in Flanders, Where men like wheat-ears fall. And it's Death and not the Fairies Who is holding carnival. THE RETURN There's a tramp o' feet in the momin,' There's an oath from an N.C.O.. As up the road to the trenches The brown battalions go : Guns and rifles and wagons. Transports and horses and men. Up with the flush of the dawnin'. And back with the night again. Back again from the battle. From the mates we've left behind, And our officers are gloomy And the N.C.O.'s are kind ; 90 THE RETURN 9« When a Jew's harp breaks the silence, Puiring an old refrain. Singing the song of the soldier, " Here we are again ! " Here we are 1 Here we are ! Oh I here wear "i again I Some have gone west, Best of the best. Lying out in the rain. Stiff as stones in the open. Out of the doings for good. They'll never come back to advance or attack ; But, God ! don't we wish that they could ! RED WINE Now seven supple lads and clean Sat down to drink one night. Sat down to drink at Nouex-les-Mines And then went ofi to fight ; And seven supple lads and clean Are finished with the fight, But only three at Nouex-les-Mines Sit down to drink to-night. And when we took the cobbled road We often took before. Our thoughts were with the hearty lads Who trod that way no more. 9a RED WINE Oh I lads out on the level fields, If you could call to mind The good red wine at Nouex-les-Mines You would not stay behind I 93 And when we left the trench to-night, Each weary vdth his load. Grey, silent ghosts, as light as air, Came with us down the road. And now we sit us down to drink You sit beside us, too. And drink red wine at Nouex-les-Mines As once you used to do. THE DAWN {GivtHchy.) The dawn comes creeping o'er the plains, The saffron clouds are streaked with red, I hear the creaking limber chains, I see the drivers raise the reins And urge their weary mules ahead. And men go up and men go down, The marching hosts are grand to see In shrapnel-shivered trench and town. In spinneys where the leaves of brown Are falling on the dewy lea. Lonely and still the village lies, The houses sleeping, the blinds all drawn. 94 THE DAWN 9S The road is straight as the bullet flies. The villagers fix their waking eyes On the shrapnel smoke that shrouds the dawn. Out of the battle, out of the night. Into the dawn and the blush of day, The road that takes us back from the fight, The road we love, it is straight and white. And it runs from the battle, away, away. n THE FLY Buzz-fly and gad-fly. dragon-fly and blue, When you're in the trenches come and visit you. They revel in your butter-dish and riot on your ham, Drill upon the army cheese and loot the army jam. They're with you in the dusk and the dawning and the noon, They come in close formation, in column and platoon. There's never icst like Tommy's zest when these have got to die : For Tommy takes his puttees off and strafs the blooming fly. 96 OUT YONDER You may see his eye shine brightly, for he bears his burden lightly, As he makes his journey nightly up the long road from Bethune, With his bayonet briskly swinging, and you'll hear him singing, singing, In the silence and the silver, molten silver, of the moon. Young and eager— bright his face is, spirit of the shrapneled places Where the homes are battered, broken, and the land in ruin lies, o 97 98 OUT YONDER But the young adventure burning gives him never time for yearning, And the natal flame of roving gleams like Ughtning in his eyes. What awaits you, boy, out yonder, where the great guns rip and thunder ? There's a menace in their message — guns that called you from afar. But where'er your fortunes guide you may no woe or ill betide you — Heaven speed you, little soldier, gaily gomg to the war. II' I WILL GO BACK I'll go back again to my father's house and live on my father's land — For my father's house is by Rosses' shore that slopes to Dooran strand. And the wild mountains of Donegal rise up on either hand. I have been gone from Donegal for seven years and a day, And true enough it's a long, long while for a wanderer to stay — But the hills of home are aye in my heart and never are far away. 99 lOO I WILL GO BACK The long white road winds o'er the hill from Fanad to Kilcar, And winds apast Gweebara Bay where the deep sea-waters are — Where the long grey boats go out by night to fish beyond the bar. I'll lie by the beach the livelong day, where the foreshore dips to the sea — When the sun is red on the golden gorse as once it used to be ; And, O ! but it's many an olden thought will come up in the heart of me. For the friends of my youth shall gather around, the friends that I knew of old, The olden songs will be sung to me and the old, old stories told I WILL GO BACK loi Beside the fire of my father's house when the nights are long and cold. 'Tis there that I'll pass my years away, back in my native land ; In my father's house by Rosses' shore that lies by Dooran strand, Where the hills of ancient Donegal rise up on either hand. i i ' i THE FARMER'S BOY [Every May, a great number of Donegal youths, whose ages range from twelve to fifteen years, go to the hiring fair of Strabane in the Co. Tyrone, and there, in the market-place, they are sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Their wa^et range from £^ to £5 (or six months, and they have to work about eighteen hours a day.] When I went o'er the mountains a farmer's boy to be. My mother wept all morning when taking leave of me ; My heart was heavy in me, but I thrept that I was gay : A man of twelve should never weep when going far away. : ! loa THE FARMER'S BOY 103 In the country o'er the mountains the rough roads straggle down, There's many a long and weary mile 'twixt there and Glenties town ; I went to be a fanner's boy, to work the season through. From Whitsuntide to Hallowe'en, which time the rent came due When virgin pure, the dawn's white arm stole o'er my mother's door. From Glenties town I took the road I never trod before ; Come Lammas tide I would not see the trout in Greenan's Bum, And Hallowe'en might come td go, but I would not return. 104 THE FARMER'S BOY My mother's love for me is warm ; her house is cold and bare : A man who wants to see the world has little comfort there ; And there 'tis hard to pay the rent, for all you dig and delve, But there's hope beyond the mountains for a Uttle man of twelve. When I went o'er the mountains I worked for days on end. Without a soul to cheer me through or one to call me friend ; With older mates I toiled and toiled, in rain and heat and wind, And kept my place. A Glenties man is never left behind. i THE FARMER'S BOY lOS The farmer's wench looked down on me, for she was spruce and clean, But men of twelve don't care for girls like lads of seventeen ; And sorrow take the farmer's wench ! her pride could never hold With mine when hoeing turnip fields with fellows twice as old. 1 And so from May to Hallowe'en I wrought and felt content. And sent my wages through the post to pay my mother's rent ; For I kept up the Glenties name, and blest, when all was done. The pride that gave a man of twelve the strength of twenty-one. THE DUG-OUT Deeper than the daisies in the rubble and the loam. Wayward as a river the winding trenches roam, Past bowed, decrepit dug-outs leaning on their props. Beyond the shattered village where the lightest limber stops ; Through fields untilled and barren, and ripped by shot and shell, — The bloodstained braes of Souchez, the meadows of Vermelles, io6 THE dug-out «o7 And poppies crown the parapet that rises from the mud — Where the soldiers' homes— the dug-outsr- are built of clay and blood. Our comrades on the level roofs, the dead men, waste away Upon the soldiers' frontier homes, the crannies in the clay ; For on the meadows of Vermelles, and all the country round. The stiff and stUl stare at the skies, the quick are underground. i STRAP' THAT FLY {Bulfy-Grtnay.) There's the butter, gad, and horse-fly, The blow-fly and the blue, The fine fly and the coarse fly. But never flew a worse fly Of all the flies that flew Than the little sneaky black fly That gobbles up our ham. The beggar's not a slack fly. He really is a crack fly, And wolfs the soldiers' jam. io8 STRAP THAT FLY So straf that fly ! our motto Is " Straf' him when you can.' He'll die because he ought to, He'll go because he's got to, So at him, every man ! 109 THE STAR-SHELL A STAR-SHELL holds the sky beyond Shell-shivered Lxhm, and drops In million sparkles on a pond That lies by HuUuch copse. A moment's brightness in the sky, To vanish at a breath. And die away, as soldiers die Upon the wastes of death. no AFTER THE WAR When I come back to England, And times of Peace come round, I'll surely have a shilling, And maybe have a pound. I'll walk the whole town over. And who shall say me nay. For I'm a British soldier With a British soldier's pay. I only joined for fun, Never joined for profit — The Army pay is good. But, God ! there's little of it. Ill 112 AFTER THE WAR When I come back to England I won't be half a swell — Ribbons for the scrapping At Loos and New Chapelle. rU search the whole town over To find anotJier trade, And be a blooming boot-black On Charing Cross parade. I will not leave for fun — The change will bring me profit. The Army pay is good, But. God ! there's iittle of it. A SOLDIER'S PRAYER GrvENCHY village lies a wreck, Givenchy Qiurch is bare, No more the peasant maidens come to say their vespers there. The altar rails are wrenched apart, with rubble « littered o'er, The sacred, broken sanctuary-lamp hes smashed upon the floor ; And mute upon the crucifix He looks upon it all— The great white Christ, the shrapnel-scourged, upon the eastern wall. H 113 114 A SOLDIER'S PRAYER He sees the churchyard delved by shells, the tombstones flung about. And dead men's skulls, and white, white bones the shells have shovelled out ; The trenches running line by line through meadow fields of green, The bayonets on the parapets the wasting flesh between ; Around Givenchy's mined church the levels, poppy-red, Are set apart for silent hosts, the legions of the dead. And when at night on sentry-go, with danger keeping tryst, I see upon the crucifix the blood-stained form of Christ A SOLDIER'S PRAYER 115 Defiled and maimed, the merciful on vigil all the time, Pitjnng his children's wrath, their passion and their crime. Mute, mute He hangs upon His Cross, the symbol of His pain. And as men scourged Him long ago, they SCO rge Him once again — There m the lonely war-ht night to Christ the Lord I cau, " Forgive the ones who work Thee harm. O Lord, forgive us all." i DUG-OUT PROVERBS Here are the Old Sweats sayings. He tells the tale of his trade — Gleanings from trench and dug-out, battle, fatigue, parade. 'Tis said the Boche has pluck enough. Of this I have no doubt, But see him in the darkest light until you've knocked him out. Your dug-out took you hours to build. Got broken in a minute ! A rotten shame ! Be thankful son, your carcass isn't in it. ii6 DUG-OUT PROVERBS 117 And if one shelters you a night tend it roof and rafter, And make it better than it was— for those who follow after. " The trench is calm," you say, my son. The Boche is keeping quiet. Then keep your rifle close at hand. We soon shall have a riot. A soldier's life is risky ; it may end damn quick. WeU, let it I Since we get five francs every week we'll burst it when we get it. You may cough and sneeze in your dug-out, but you can't go anywhere. There's little health around the house— the dead are Ijdng there. ii8 DUG-OUT PROVERBS You may dig as deep as a spade can dig, but the Boche's eye can tell Where the khaki moles have plied their trade, and the beggars burrow well. Pray to God when the dirt* flies over and the country flops about, But stick to your dug-out all the same until you're ordered out. When guns are going large a bit and sending gifts from Krupp, You've got to keep your napper low, but keep your spirits up. These are the dug-out maxims which the " Old Sweats " fling about. For the better education of the " rooky " newly out. * Dirt. Trench term for shells. MATEY (Camirin, Afay, 191 5-) Not comin' back to-night, matey. And reliefs are comin' through, We're all goin' out all right, matey, Only we're leavin' you. Gawd ! it's a bloody sin, matey. Now that we've finished the fight. We go when reliefs come in, matey, But you're stayin' 'ere to-night. Over the top is cold, matey — You lie on the field alone, Didn't I love you of old, matey. Dearer than the blood of my own 119 ISO MATEY You were my dearest chum, matey— (Gawd ! but your face is white) But now, though reliefs 'ave come, matey, I'm goin' alone to-night. I'd sooner the bullet was mine, matey — Goin' out on my own, Leavin' you 'ere in the line, matey. All by yourself, alone. Chum o* mine and you're dead, matey. And this is the way we part. The bullet went through your head, matey. But Gawd ! it went through my 'eart. THE GREAT PUSH An Episode of the War by PATRICK MACGILL. Crown 8vo. 2/6 net. In- land Postage 6d. extra. 35th Thousand. The London Irish distinguished themselves at Loos and Rifleman Patrick MacGill was pi .sent during the whole operation. His story is a series of vivid pictures of battle and the horrors left behind the charging troops. Humour and tragedy go hand in hand in this latest work of realism from the pen of the author of Children of the Dead End. Daily Telegraph.— "The real thing." Daily Mail.—** It is a book to read." Field. — ♦*This book is in its way unique." Punch. — ** Nothing so absolutely absorbing and so awful as The Great Push has in the way of War literature crossed my path since August, 1914. . . . My advice to you, if War's iron has not yet entered into your soul, is '^o read this book at once. The rest had better read it too." HERBERT JENKINS, LTD., 12, ARUNDEL PLACE, S.W. 37TH THOUSAND. THE RED HORIZON S^ ^^JV^}^^^""^^^^^ Author of "Children of the Dead End," "The Rat-Pit," "The Amateur Army," etc crown ova Pall Mall Gazbtti. Sunday Timis. Daily Mail. EvKNiNo Standard. Country Life. Globe. Daily Nkws. FIRST REVIEWS Saturday Review. "Vivid work." " . . . u this. Alive from cover to cover." "A very remarlcAble book . . . ■ leries of wonderful word pictures." "This book, sincere and enthralling, hu a place of its own in the literaiure of the war." " TAe Xtd Horiton is sure to be as widely read as the most vivid desaip- tion yet written of the actualities of this war." " The Red Heritm should be read in conjunction with 'The First Hundred Thousand.' Each is a pendant to the other. Mr. MacGUPs book is one of the few volumes on the war which one can cordially recommend." " His book is a book of real things. It will also be eagerly read as a book of adventures, for, in his experiences with the London Irish, Mr. MacGill found adventures at every step. Its mixture of excitement, amusement, and gross reality is likely to make it one of the most popular books about the war." " Bill the Cockney is a breathing charac- ter that Dickens would have loved ; a..d now that he has put fun into this book he cannot be slam until the boo' dies. All the other characters are alive, but Bill lives with a vigour that cannot come from his narrow, street- bred chest. He is the genius of Cockneybm." HERBERT JENKINS, LTD., 12, ARUNDEL PLACE, S.W. THIRD EDITION (10,000 COPIES) IN 15 DAYS. CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A NAVVY. By PATRICK MacGILL, the new Writer whose work is being compared with that of Rudyard Kipling and George Borrow. Price 6/-. Inland Postage, sd. extra. Fifth Edition. Manchester Gdn. Globe Standard Saturday Review Bookman Outlook Bystander Country Life Truth Ev. Standard D. Telegraph Pall Mall Gaz. Sphere English Review Graphic Athemaum "A grand book." " A living story." "A notable book." " An achievemei.t." " Something unique." "A Remarkable book." " A human document" " A human document." " Intensely interesting." " A thrilling achievement." " Will have a lasting value." " Nothing can withstand it." " The book has genius in it" " A wonderful piece of work." " An enthralling slice of life." "We welcome such books as this." HERBERT JENKINS, LTD., 12. ARUNDEL PLACE. S.W. FOURTH EDITION. THE RAT-PIT By PATRICK MACGILL. Author of "Chi! 2n of the Dead End." Crown 8vo, 6/-. Inland Postage 5d. extra. THE CRITICS SAY: New Statesman ATHBNiCUM Tatler Daily Telegraph I Standard Globe Nation Daily News Truth "A work of Art" " A powerful novel." "A wonderful writer." " A poignant piece of work." "A book impossible to ignore. . . " " I would not have missed readinr It for much." "The Rat-Pit takes a place of its own m contemporary literature." "It is a book like the Rat-Pit which makes one so impatient of the futility of the average novel.'' • " Norah Ryan is a real masterpiece. Dostoyevsky might have created her. Mr. MACGILL has got the real stuff in him. He will go far." HERBERT JENKINS. LTD., n ARqNDEL PLACE. S w' THE AMATEUR ARMY Experiencw of « Soldier in the Making. By PATRICK MACGILL. Author of "Children of the Dead End." "The Rat-Pit" With Portrait. Crown Sva i/- net. Inland Poatage 3d. extra. FIRST REVIEWS Pall Mall Gazbtte. Graphic Mr. St J. Adcock in Everyman. Daily Tileoraph. Bystander. " An attractive little volume" " The author's gripping style and Irish wit make a niMt readable narrative." "The best vividest and most entertaining account I have read of the experiences of a soldier in the making." " Gives many vivid pictures of the Incidents and humours attend- ing the transformation of a citizen into a soldier." " His chapters are interesting and valuable because you know they are true, and the whole book is very well done." Evening Standard. " Bristling with humour. ... It is just the book we should have expected from Mr. MacGill's easy mastery of realism." "The man who gave us Ckildrtn of the Dead End could hardly fail to interest us in a life so strange. . . . It is continuously interesting." "Mr. MacGill has a facile pen, and no little humour . . . this book will be of incalculable use to the young and inex- Eerienced soldier. It will give im many a hearty laugh and will introduce him to some finely-drawn camp characters.'' 0.;bI£kVBR. Globe. HERBERT JENKINS, LTD., 13, ARUNDEL PLACE, S.W. THE ROSE OF GLENCONNEL A Novel by MARGARET GIBBONS (MRS. PATRICK MACGILL). Crown 8vo. Cloth 3/6 net. Inland Postage 5d. extra. Mrs. Patrick Mar(iill in her first novel tells the Si|.ry of Rose Moran who, at the age of twelve months, is left an orphan in the mining and lumber camp of Glenconnel in the Yukon. The rough men of the West decide to adopt her and she becomes known as the Rose of Glenconnel, growing up into a beautiful and fearless girl of the wilds. When she is sixteen Dick Bryce enters her life and precipitates her into a series of adventures and hair-breadth escapes from which she is extricated only by her own fearlessness. BINDLE Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle, by HERBERT JENKINS, Author of "The Life of George Borrow." Cloth 3/6. Postage 5d. extra. By profession Bindle is a journeyman furniture- remover, by nature he is a humorist. He discovers that a sense of humour is, like a tooth-brush, an intensely personal affair. When, for instance, he mixes alcohol with the lemonade at the Barton Bridge Temperance F^te, he alonefully appreciates thesituation thus created. His home environment is one of deep religious gloom. Mrs. Bindle is too intent upon the next world to see in Bindle anything but an irresponsible heathen. " Lo"^ yer job ? " is her invariable interrogation when Bindle finds someemployer too deeply soaked in commerdahsm to see one of his " little jokes." HERBERT JENKINS, LTD.. la. ARUNDEL PLACE, S.W. 1 A NEW POET. SONGS OF THE FIELDS By FRANCIS LEDWIDGE. by Lord Dunsany. Crown Inland Postage 4d. extra. With an introduction 8vo. Price 3/6 net. FIRST Pall Mall Gazbttb, Standard. Tatler. Sphb:ib. GLObB. Daily Tblegraph. Truth. Manchester Guardian, REVIEWS " In Mr. Ledwidge we have a poet of quite original gifts." "A new Irish poet. Mr. Ledwidge has a rich vein of poetry in him. ' " The poems are all fine, many of an extraordinary haunting beauty." "There are many reasons why one should read Songs of the Fields." "There is a new poet come to us, and he shall find a mighty welcome." " Francis Ledwidge's verses have a simple beauty and a natural grace which reveal a mind at once pure and aspiring." " Ledwidge is a poet The Spring of English poetry has been almost dry for many a long day, but in Songs of the Fields it gushes forth anew in a stream of pure crystal." ' ' What first strikes us is that, to speak broadly, Mr. Ledwidge is master already of a style adequate to the loftiest poetical re()uirements. . . . To bc^n quoting from Mr. Ledwidge is a temptation, and we should like to continue. Instead we must send readers to his volume. All who read it will join us in the hope that he will have to fulfil his promise." HERBERT JENKINS, LTD., 12, ARUNDEL PLACE, S.W. II ' \ I A DOMINIE'S LOG THE EXPERIENCES OF AN UN- CONVENTIONAL SCHOOLMASTER. By A. S. NEILL. M.A. Crown 8vo. Price 2s.6d. net Postage 4d. extf*^ SOME EARLY REVIEWS Evening News.-" Most decidedly a book to *'''ev.rvman.-"A delightfully unconventional schoolmaster." . Times.-" It is to be hoped that we have not heard the last of the author." • u» k. GRAPHIC.-" If you want to know what might be done buy * A Dominie's Log. BRmsH WE.KLV.--A bright »d Uvd, »xo«n. of a Scottish schoolmaster's Ute. ^ , , . SUNDAY TiMES.-"The book is one tJ^V^ould be rei For it is full of illuminating thought. BOOKUAN-" A book that is delightful as well as profiUble'o read No one who begins it will leave it half finished." . ^ _ ... r, *i,iov — « I want every one to buy ' A Dommie s I Lo^g^Thexe is aCgh to Lery page and a valuable thought to every Ime." Daily Telegraph.-" Nothing, better worth h^df a aown has come one's way m these time, of economy." ___^__^_— — — — ^ ».p«KRT TENKINS. LTD.. ». ARUNDEL PLACE. S.W.