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 laCKLIN 
 And They Went to the War 
 
 PR 
 6027 
 164 A5 
 
And they went 
 to the War " 
 
 Poems by 
 
 J. A. NICKLIN 
 
 London: SIDGWICK & JACKSON Ltd. 
 
/i/p 
 
 "And they went 
 to the War" 
 
 "By J. A. NICKLIN 
 
 LONDON : SIDGWICK & JACKSON 
 LTD. 1 9 14 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Nunc Dimittis : a Book of 
 Poems. 2s. td. net. 
 
 SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 When on his sleepless unrest the Reveille* 
 
 Breaks, with ''bold bugles blowing points of 
 war," 
 And he sees, in waking vision, bright Youth sally, 
 Through Destiny's door, 
 
 Forth to the tented field, and shining Honour, 
 Throned on the thundering heights' dread 
 majesty, 
 And his grey soul feels despair close upon her, 
 In misery 
 
 Of torpid blood and life's declining vigour, 
 Acknowledging with cold reluctant tears 
 The toll at last exacted in full rigour, 
 The toll of years, 
 
 And he has but a song to bring his brothers, 
 
 A dirge for those who in their young prime fall — 
 Is all his pity dedicate to those others ? 
 Not all ! Not all ! 
 
 ■••■■ Pronounced, more militari, ^^Revally.'^ 
 
I.-THE YOUNG SQUIRE. 
 
 '' Come saddle me the Iron Duke, you hear the 
 
 bugles call ; 
 My poor old mare, Brown Bess, must eat her head 
 
 off in the stall ; 
 It needs a charger stout for me, and not a poor old 
 
 mare, 
 To stand to fire, to trot all day, to spur and never 
 
 spare. 
 
 " I thought that I should live and die a dull and 
 
 dreary drone. 
 With not a thing upon this earth I could wish to 
 
 make my own ; 
 Poor, pretty Kate, at Willow Farm, had kissed me 
 
 to despair. 
 My stately cousin smiled and smiled — what the devil 
 
 did I care ? 
 
 " I could not bear to see the tombs of each knightly 
 
 ancestor, 
 Sir James who fell at Ascalon, Sir Piers at Agin- 
 
 court ; 
 They lay within the cold, black rails ; their cold, 
 
 impassive gaze. 
 Beneath the fretted ceiling, sneered at my inglorious 
 
 days. 
 
 4 
 
" But the call of battle stirs the blood no kiss could 
 
 ever thrill, 
 And the bounding pulses tell my heart that blood 
 
 is knightly still. 
 Farewell, farewell, till I can show such deeds as ye 
 
 have done, 
 Sir Piers who fell at Agincourt, Sir James at 
 
 Ascalon ! " 
 
II.-THE CITY CLERK. 
 
 *' We were sick to death of ledger and of day book, 
 Bored to death in City and on 'Change ; 
 
 For us at tea-time Lyons' Peggy may look ; 
 
 We're taking tea with Prussians — at long range. 
 
 *' We'd had enough of ' footer ' and of cricket ; 
 
 But what bowling and what charges we have seen 
 Since we started out to keep up England's wicket 
 
 And to give and take War's passes, sharp and 
 clean ! 
 
 *' When the air with hurtling shrapnel's all a-quiver 
 And the smoke of battle through the valley swirls, 
 
 It's better than our Sundays up the river, 
 And the rifle's hug is closer than a girl's." 
 
III.~THE PITMAN. 
 
 Wild elf-locks shag his swarthy brow ; 
 
 Under its thatch a sullen fire 
 Glows from two bloodshot balls ; and how 
 
 Those hunching shoulders scorn to tire ! 
 
 The corded muscle of his neck, 
 
 The iron sinew of his arms, 
 The thickened ear, the nose a wreck, 
 
 Proclaim a man that ring-craft charms. 
 
 Still prompt a drunken rage to wreak 
 With blackguard tongue and brutal fist, 
 
 The blessings promised to the meek 
 Are not for him, Evangelist ! 
 
 To cheer the Cup that's going North, 
 To coursing-match and game-cock main, 
 
 Geordies and Tykes may sally forth — 
 This year they'll look for him in vain. 
 
 Beneath the stars he bivouacs 
 
 On Gallic heights or Belgian plains, 
 
 Or staggers, lurching, in the tracks 
 Of war, now bloodier from his veins. 
 
 It is not storms of leaden rain 
 
 Or flaming batteries, belching death. 
 
 That make him gnaw his lips in pain. 
 Or, with a spasm, catch his breath. 
 
The man who faced without a blench 
 The fire-damp's swift tornado-hell, 
 
 Sprawls, careless, in an open trench. 
 And whistles at the bursting shell. 
 
 Only he mutters : " T' gradely lass, 
 
 And t' pretty bairns, 'tis rough on them ; 
 
 If owt amiss should come to pass, 
 God blast the swine 'd let 'em clem !" 
 
IV.-THE POACHER. 
 
 *' In Codsall Wood no snares are laid, 
 
 Its coverts I have bid farewell, 
 Nor sneak through moonlight-dappled shade 
 
 In the old chase of Boscobel. 
 
 " Last Fall I knocked the keeper out, 
 And did six months in Shrewsbury jail ; 
 
 To-day I order him about; 
 
 I've got my stripe; that turned him pale. 
 
 " My poor old shot-gun on the stairs 
 Grows fine and rusty, I'll be bound ; 
 
 I'm shooting bigger game than hares, 
 And bag a head with every round." 
 
V.-THE FISHER-LAD. 
 
 " Farewell and good-bye to you, maiden of Teifi, 
 Farewell and good-bye to you, dear Teifi maid ! 
 
 The jolly-boat's waiting, I'm off in a jiffy, 
 
 To scouting and cruising, to chaise and to raid. 
 
 " Ah, cariad, say, when you see in the offing, 
 Dark on the blue waters of Cardigan Bay, 
 
 Our smoke-stack just showing, then will you be 
 doffing 
 Your bonnet to wave us a parting ' huzzay ' ? 
 
 " Once homeward I'd run, tho' the black scud was 
 flying, 
 And the breakers were howling like fiends on our 
 lee. 
 With every stitch set, every danger defying. 
 
 For, a7i'wyl, I knew that you watched on the quay. 
 
 ^' In vain will you watch for your fisher-lad's skiff, 
 he 
 
 Is tracking the death that the foeman has laid ; 
 If Death is the end of it, dear maid of Teifi, 
 
 Farewell and good-bye to you, dear Teifi maid ! " 
 
 lo 
 
VI.-FROM WHITECHAPEL. 
 
 A white and wolfish face, with fangs 
 
 Half-snarling out of flaccid lips ; 
 An unkempt head, that loosely hangs ; 
 
 Shoulders that cower from gaolers' grips; 
 
 Eyes furtive in their greedy glance ; 
 
 Slim fingers not untaught to thieve; — 
 He shambles forward to the chance 
 
 His whole life's squalor to retrieve. 
 
 II 
 
VII.-THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 His narrow chest he will inflate, 
 
 His tell-tale spectacles discard, 
 Till " Passed for Service," soon or late, 
 
 His simple stratagem reward. 
 
 The burly sergeant, perhaps, may sniff. 
 His stalwart comrades laugh, and jeer 
 
 The meagre frame — what matter, if 
 His country calls, and he is here ? 
 
 With them, they think, he has no part ; 
 
 The lax and feeble limbs they scan ; 
 They cannot read the swelling heart 
 
 That makes the weakling more than man. 
 
 12 
 
VIII.-THE YOUNG WIFE. 
 
 But who is this goes steaHng by ? 
 
 Look once, but do not look again ! 
 She may not brook a curious eye, 
 
 Proud, shy, half-glad, half-crazed with pain. 
 
 The hectic burns upon a cheek 
 
 With unfamiliar pallor wan ; 
 The smile about her lips to-seek 
 
 Flitters a moment, and is gone. 
 
 A rosebud opened all too rathe. 
 
 Too frail for passion's reckless touch, 
 
 Her girlish beauty shows the scathe 
 That comes to all who feel too much. 
 
 For maiden's coy delay must fail 
 When lovers are so soon to part ; 
 
 Yestreen she wore the bridal veil, 
 To-day she bears a widowed heart. 
 
 13 
 
IX.-A MOTHER OF MEN. 
 
 Gaunt and haggard, and stiff with toil 
 
 To wrest scant bread from a niggard soil, 
 
 Hatless, whatever the season be, 
 
 With coarse skirt kilted above her knee, 
 
 A grim, virago, yet in her face 
 
 Lingering hints of a faded grace, 
 
 She used to slouch through the village street 
 
 With a head bowed down, no glance to meet. 
 
 The gossips at their doors would stand 
 
 And leer askance at the unringed hand. 
 
 *' There's folk," they tittered, " no better than cats; 
 
 God knows the father of all those brats ! " 
 
 But she strides to-day with head unbowed ; 
 What is this thing that makes her proud ? 
 What is it makes her hard eyes shine ? 
 Six strong sons dead in the fighting line ! 
 The gossips at their doors may stand ; 
 They dare not sneer at the unringed hand. 
 Men mutter a prayer and raise their hats 
 For a shameless woman and nameless brats. 
 The childless wife must speak her fair, 
 The laggard's mother shrink from her stare. 
 She scorns them now, as they scorned her then. 
 Mother of heroes ! Mother of men ! 
 
 14 
 
X 
 "SUNT LACRIMAE RERUM." 
 
 The pomp in which the sun went down, 
 
 Burning the river, shore to shore, 
 With splendours of his blazing crown, 
 
 Is such I never saw before. 
 
 The peace that wraps this English lea, 
 
 As tender Evening leans her brow 
 To bless the woodland sanctity, 
 
 Is such I never felt till now. 
 
 The pathos of a sunset shore, 
 
 The pain on Evening's tender brow, 
 
 Is such I never saw before. 
 Is such I never felt till now. 
 
 15 
 
XI.-THE VOICES IN THE WIND 
 
 Night's dumbness, only pin-pricked by- 
 Staccato ticks that time my pen, 
 
 Shatters : the gale is loud and high ; 
 
 It moans, it raves, it keens — and then 
 
 O wild, unearthly music, hush ! 
 
 There are such voices in your storm 
 That I my very life would crush 
 
 To drown this dread in life-blood warm ! 
 
 [Grateful acknowledgment is due to the Editor and Proprietori of 
 the Saturday fVistminster Gazette for permission to reprint the Prologue, 
 Nos. I, V, VIII, X, and XI in this little sheaf of verses.] 
 
 GARDtN CITY PKISS LTD., PRINT1.R5, LITCHWORTH. 
 
PAMPHLET BINDER 
 
 Zz:^ Syrocoie, N. Y. 
 Stockton. Calif. 
 
 "_■'""■ "I mil iiN INI II iinii nil III! Ill 
 
 3 1205 03057 : 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY 
 
 A A 001 429 73! 
 
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