Rhymes of a Red Cross Man | Page 6

was pourin'; The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky.?We wondered where the 'Uns was -- we wasn't long a-wonderin', For down a scruff of 'ill-side they rushes like a flood;?Then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin',?And arms and legs went soarin' in the fountain of their blood.
For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' and a-singin';?We pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't miss a shot.?But though we mowed 'em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin', And all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles was so 'ot. We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin' out of 'em, And then we fixed our bay'nets and we spitted 'em like meat. You should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal;?you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em,?And 'ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat!
Retreat! That was the 'ell of it. It fair upset our 'abits, A-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the roads of France; A-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry rabbits,?And knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 'ad 'alf a chance. Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin' and a-blunderin'; All day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on our feet;?A-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit o' rest, and wonderin' If sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest to eat.
Ho yus, there isn't many left that started out so cheerily; There was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no autmobeels.?Our tummies they was 'oller, and our 'eads was 'angin' wearily, And if we stopped to light a fag the 'Uns was on our 'eels. That rotten road! I can't forget the kids and mothers flyin' there, The bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid sights I sor;?The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin' there, Their faces covered over wiv a little 'eap of stror.
Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets 'ummin' (I've panted out this ditty with me 'ot 'ard breath.)?Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin', The lootin' and the shootin' and the shrieks o' death. Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde pursuin' there, And 'ow we 'urled it back again, them grim, grey waves; Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves.
The Haggis of Private McPhee
"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me??It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.?"And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,?As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.?"A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee;?"The brawest big haggis I ever did see.?And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns?Tae haggis and whuskey -- the Birthday o' Burns.?We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest?O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."
"Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;?"I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."?Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:?"I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."?Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:?"I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."?But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:?"Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;?And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',?We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.?Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,?O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."
My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,?And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.?And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,?And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.?There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,?And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;?But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole?Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.?For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem?Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.
Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer?Calamity's aften maist cruelly near.?And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine?The Boches below them were howkin' a mine.?And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae,?The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away.?Then sudden a 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