Rhymes of a Red Cross Man | Page 7

roar like the thunner o' doom,
A hell-leap o'
flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.
"Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun.
"Ay, Geordie,
they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done.
It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's
aff at the knee;
Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee.

"Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun;
"And leave ye I
canna, for though I micht run,
It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle
I'd see:
I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me."
Then
Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:
"If we bide here for lang, we'll
be bidin' for deid.
And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content

If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent."
"That's droll," says
McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind.

Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae

be blind;
And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot --
It's missin' that
braw muckle haggis ye've got."
For a while they were silent; then up
once again
Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain:

"And why should we miss it? Between you and me
We've legs for tae
run, and we've eyes for tae see.
You lend me your shanks and I'll lend
you ma sicht,
And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."
Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee,
When Private McPhun
gruppit Private McPhee.
Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the
grun',
When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.
"Keep clear o'
them corpses -- they're maybe no deid!
Haud on! There's a big
muckle crater aheid.
Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup.

A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.
Bear aff tae
yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine:
Before the nicht's feenished on
haggis we'll dine."
There wis death and destruction on every hand;
There wis havoc and
horror on Naebuddy's Land.
And the shells bickered doun wi' a
crump and a glare,
And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air.

Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun
When the stutter and
cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'.
And the legs o' McPhun they were
sturdy and stoot,
And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.

"On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal;
I can hear the
braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."
But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,
Wi' a sab and a curse
fell his length on the grun'.
Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his
ear:
"Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here.
It's gushin' wi'
juice, it's embaumin' the air;
It's steamin' for us, and we're -- jist --
aboot -- there." Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap!

For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap."
And he gets on his feet
wi' a heave and a strain,
And onward he staggers in passion and pain.

And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,
Till you'd think
they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease.
And on they go reelin' in peetifu'

plight,
And someone is shoutin' away on their right;
And someone
is runnin', and noo they can hear
A sound like a prayer and a sound
like a cheer;
And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,

The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.
"They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll
Hoo they rave aboot
haggis?" says Sergeant McCole.
When hirplin alang comes wee
Wullie McNair,
And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair.

And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot,
And there it lay steamin'
and savoury hot,
When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell,
And
it -- DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL."
And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;
Then sudden the order wis
passed tae attack,
And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,

And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.
On, on, wi' their
bayonets thirstin' before!
On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar!

And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,
And doon on the Boches
like tigers they sprang:
And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,

For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.
The Lark
From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn,
The guns have brayed
without abate;
And now the sick sun looks upon
The bleared,
blood-boltered fields of hate
As if it loathed to rise again.
How
strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark!
From yon down-trodden gold of
grain,
The leaping rapture of a lark.
A fusillade of melody,
That sprays us from yon trench of sky;
A
new amazing enemy
We cannot silence though we try;
A battery on
radiant wings,
That from yon gap of golden fleece
Hurls at us hopes
of such strange things
As joy and home and love and peace.
Pure heart of song! do you not know
That we are making earth a hell?


Or is it that you try to show
Life still is joy and all is well?
Brave
little wings! Ah, not in vain
You beat into that