Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: Trench Ballads and Other Verses by Garrett Erwin Clarkson
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page
Ebook has 440 lines and 22864 words, and 9 pages
An hour's calm is with us, Mr. Fly; And the endless battle strain, And the shelling and the rain, Ought to make it very plain, Mr. Fly--
That I need a little nap, Mr. Fly. That I do need mighty well Just to sun and rest a spell, And to sleep here where I fell, Mr. Fly.
THE SALVATION ARMY WITH THE A. E. F.
You kept no roped-off rows of chairs Or clubs "For Officers Only," But you toiled for John Doe when he was Cold, tired, wet and lonely.
You didn't squander millions On soldiers warming benches, But you worked like blazes for the ones That frequented the trenches.
You didn't stick to cast-iron rules Of business most punctilious, And you never treated Private Doe With manner supercilious.
You had no boundless backing-- But just inside your doors It seemed like, "Feel to home, Bill-- Sit down, the place is yours."
Some things we fain remember-- Some things we fain forget-- But you, oh kindly people, Live in our memory yet.
SHELL-HOLES.
They're ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes That litter up the ground, That ruin all the landscape For miles and miles around.
That pock-mark fertile fields of green-- That rip the hard French roads, And catch the lumbering trucks at night Agroan beneath their loads.
And some of them are little uns The shrill one-pounders plow-- About a meter--edge to edge-- But large enough, I trow.
And some of them nigh twice as broad, And rather more straight down, The "77" Boches' gift, Of dubious renown.
And some of them a dozen feet From rim to ragged rim, And deep enough to hide a horse-- A crater, gaunt and grim.
And some of them are yellow-black, Where clings the reek of gas, .
And some of them are water-fouled-- Or dried and parched and dun; And some of them are newly turned-- Fresh blotches 'neath the sun.
But all spell red destruction, Blind rage and blinding hate, To them who charge the shell-swept zone Or in the trenches wait.
Should we say "all," or modify Our statement? Any fool Knows that exceptions always rise To prove an iron-clad rule.
They were the holes we rolled into-- When iron or bullet struck-- Cursing the cursed Prussian, And blessing our bless?d luck.
Oh lovely, beauteous shell-hole, Wherein we helpless lay, A wondrous couch of velvet Ye seemed to us that day.
Our blood it stained your cushions A deep and richer red, As shrieking messengers of death Sped harmless overhead.
Swept whining in their blood-lust, Hell's music, bleak and grim, Splitting in rage the edges Of your all-protecting rim.
Oh shell-holes, murderous shell-holes, In vales of grass and wheat-- On hillside and in forest, In road and village street--
Your toll of suffering and death Is flashed to East and West-- But tell they of the wounded Ye've sheltered in your breast?
FOOD.
We've eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry's and the Ritz-- The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon too. We've sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and Meurice, Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never knew.
From tables where the Northern Fires greet the coming night-- To Raffles out in Singapore and the Palace in Bombay; From Shepheard's to that little hostelry Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs sway.
We've traveled north, we've traveled south by all routes known to man-- We've traveled east, we 've traveled west by some they scarcely came: From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar, From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things and game.
We've put them all beneath our belt with consummate address: We've risen from the laden board and smacked our jowl in glee. With organs sound and healthy we have murdered each menu And left the wreck of good things with a gourmet's ecstasy.
But do you wish to know the feasts that permeated deep-- That stirred the very bottom of my stomach to the core? Quisine that brought such wondrous bliss, but satiated not, That saturating satisfied, but still left room for more?
The place--a little half deserted town in northern France: The time--a time of carnage, of wanton strife and hate: And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands of Fate.
I've entered now a peasant's house--an ancient, kindly dame-- Who's seen me several times before, and knows just what I wish: So the frying-pan is gotten out--the pewter fork and knife-- A big bowl and the skillet and a large, substantial dish.
And I'm breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty bowl , And pouring from my canteen's gurgling mouth a draught of milk, To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way.
And now the spluttering eggs are done, the chocolate's hot and rich; I have my feet beneath the board, the pewter weapons near: A hunger from a front-line trench--the stomach of a goat-- And a battle-line that's very far, though still the guns ring clear.
And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the veil-- So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy-- And maybe you will understand why other dinners pale, And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy.
OVER THE TOP.
We've soldiered many, many moons In this old plugging war, And all the ills and all the thrills, We've had 'em o'er and o'er.
And after all our resum? And cogitating bull, We've reached a clear decision, Most amplified and full:--
The greatest time in all the life Of any living man-- The mightiest moment of the Game-- The proudest, high ?lan;
The thing we came three thousand miles Across the seas to do-- "The Day," the splendid hour That waits for me and you,
Arrives--We spring into the wastes Of land, ripped, roweled and barred-- The battle-lust in brain and eye-- The weary jaw set hard;
The rifle gripped in hands of steel, Where, flashing in the sun, Sweep on our blazing bayonets, The terror of the Hun.
THE BATTLE MOTHER.
Over the sodden trenches-- Over the skirmish line-- High o'er the hole-torn fields and roads Cometh a face to mine.
Under the burning gas attack, And the stench of the bursting shell, We hope we may live for her dear sake-- She who would wish us well.
Between the blazing horizons That hammer the long night through, Lapping their tongues of hatred-- Fearless she comes to you.
And over the roar of battle Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings, Shine forth the loving eyes we hold Above all earthly things.
SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917.
The drafted men fought hard and well, But when it first began, From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf, We rose, a single man.
The drafted men fought hard and well, But when the days were black, Glad we sprang to the call to front The snarling, charging pack.
The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate, In a victor's drunken might: The unleashed, howling gray hordes Sweeping plain and height.
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page