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Ballads of a Bohemian

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<h2> IV </h2> A Lapse of Time and a Word of Explanation The American Hospital, Neuilly, January 1919. Four years have passed and it is winter again. Much has happened. When I last wrote, on the Somme in 1915, I was sickening with typhoid fever. All that spring I was in hospital. Nevertheless, I was sufficiently recovered to take part in the Champagne battle in the fall of that year, and to "carry on" during the following winter. It was at Verdun I got my first wound. In the spring of 1917 I again served with my Corps; but on the entry of the United States into the War I joined the army of my country. In the Argonne I had my left arm shot away. As far as time and health permitted, I kept a record of these years, and also wrote much verse. All this, however, has disappeared under circumstances into which there is no need to enter here. The loss was a cruel one, almost more so than that of my arm; for I have neither the heart nor the power to rewrite this material. And now, in default of something better, I have bundled together this manuscript, 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 Petits Moineaux, Paris. <h2> Michael </h2> "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, bloody 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." <h2> The Wife </h2> "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 damned 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: "God pity mothers in distress, And little children fatherless." "God 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 God! Thy world is glorified." <h2> Victory Stuff </h2> What d'ye think, lad; what d'ye think, As the roaring crowds go by? As the banners flare and the brasses blare And the great guns rend the sky? As the women laugh like they'd all gone mad, And the champagne glasses 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. 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 hell 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. <h2> Was It You? </h2> "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 pass 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?" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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