Rhymes of a Red Cross Man | Page 5

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 the way, and slung us their palaver, And all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang";?They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy, And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed;?And 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled the Marcelaisey! Oh, Gawd! Them was the 'appy days, the days too good to last.
We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin'; We 'ollered: "'Ere We Are Again", and 'struth! but we was dry. The dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow the sweat