Rhymes of a Red Cross Man | Page 5

she thought
that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming Of the mustering of
legions, and 'twas calling unto me;
'Twas calling me to pull my
freight and hop across the sea.
And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder,
For I
heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar;
Oh the wife she
tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, And she laughed a bit
sarcastic when I told her it was War; 'Twas the chariots of battle where
the mighty armies are.
Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying,
And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do?
Oh the
dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, As I flung my
silver foxes in the little birch canoe:
Yes, the old girl stood
a-blubbing till an island hid the view.
Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.
You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so." "But I
haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty. And shall I
miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers -- no!" So I sold my furs
and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago.
For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter In the
trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away;
And the partner
on my right hand was an `apache' from Montmartre; On my left there
was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A. (Poor fellow! They collected
him in bits the other day.)
But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, And they
calls me Old Methoosalah, and `blagues' me all the day. I'm their
exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago,
And laugh to see me
plug a Boche a half a mile away.
Oh I hold the highest record in the
regiment, they say.
And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming In

the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea,
Where the
musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; And they sit
like little children, just as quiet as can be: Men of every crime and
colour, how they harken unto me!
And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, Of
secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore;
And I tell them of the
ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, And they fill their pipes in
silence, and their eyes beseech for more; While above the star-shells
fizzle and the high explosives roar.
And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling,
And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track;
And valleys
packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, And I tell
them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac;
And I find myself
a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.
So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, And the
fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; And I yarn of fur and
feather when the `marmites' are a-soaring, And they listen to my stories,
seven `poilus' in a row,
Seven lean and lousy `poilus' with their
cigarettes aglow.
And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska; And those
seven greasy `poilus' they are crazy to go too.
And I'll give the wife
the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her The price of mink and
marten, and the run of cariboo,
And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll
start to work anew.
For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered, And an
army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore,
And a city all
a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered, For the lake is yonder
dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; And the dogs are leaping madly,
and the wife is singing gladly, And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave
it nevermore.
The Red Retreat

Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers (I've
'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); Tramp,
tramp, the dim road -- we didn't 'ave no pipers, And bellies that was
'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat. Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits
o' kiddies cryin' there, The fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame;

Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin' there, Red there,
and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it's a shame!
A-singin' "'Oo's Yer Lady Friend?" we started out from 'Arver,
A-singin' till our froats was dry -- we didn't care a 'ang; The Frenchies
'ow they lined