Rhymes of a Red Cross Man | Page 9

RAIN,
RAIN.
It isn't because we lack grit?We shrink from the horrors of war.?We don't mind the battle a bit;?In fact that is what we are for;?It isn't the rum-jars and things?Make us wish we were back in the fold:?It's the fingers that freeze?In the boreal breeze --?It's the COLD,
COLD,
COLD.
Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,?The cold, the mud, and the rain;?With weather at zero it's hard for a hero?From language that's rude to refrain.?With porridgy muck to the knees,?With sky that's a-pouring a flood,?Sure the worst of our foes?Are the pains and the woes?Of the RAIN,
the COLD,
and the MUD.
Tipperary Days
Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare;?Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,?Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there.?Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them,?On the road, the white road, all the afternoon;?Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune:
It's a long way to Tipperary,?It's a long way to go;?It's a long way to Tipperary,?And the sweetest girl I know.?Good-bye, Piccadilly,?Farewell, Lester Square:?It's a long, long way to Tipperary,?But my heart's right there.
"Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them! Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by.?Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them?Going out so gallantly to dare and die??What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland? Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King??`Marseillaise' or `Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land,?Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing:
"C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee',?C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai;?C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee',?Et la belle fille qu'je connais.?Bonjour, Peekadeely!?Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire!?C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee',?Mais mon coeur `ees zaire'."
The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride;?For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died.?And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black;?But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them! -- Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back:
It's a long way to Tipperary?(Which means "'ome" anywhere);?It's a long way to Tipperary?(And the things wot make you care).?Good-bye, Piccadilly?('Ow I 'opes my folks is well);?It's a long, long way to Tipperary --?('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)
Fleurette
(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)
My leg? It's off at the knee.?Do I miss it? Well, some. You see?I've had it since I was born;?And lately a devilish corn.?(I rather chuckle with glee?To think how I've fooled that corn.)
But I'll hobble around all right.?It isn't that, it's my face.?Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,?Hardly a thing in place;?Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.?Nurse won't give me a glass,?But I see the folks as they pass?Shudder and turn away;?Turn away in distress . . .?Mirror enough, I guess.
I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;?But I wasn't a while ago.?If you'd seen me even to-day,?The darndest picture of woe,?With this Caliban mug of mine,?So ravaged and raw and red,?Turned to the wall -- in fine,?Wishing that I was dead. . . .?What has happened since then,?Since I lay with my face to the wall,?The most despairing of men??Listen! I'll tell you all.
That `poilu' across the way,?With the shrapnel wound in his head,?Has a sister: she came to-day?To sit awhile by his bed.?All morning I heard him fret:?"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"
Then sudden, a joyous cry;?The tripping of little feet;?The softest, tenderest sigh;?A voice so fresh and sweet;?Clear as a silver bell,?Fresh as the morning dews:?"C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!?Mon fre^re, comme je suis heureuse!"
So over the blanket's rim?I raised my terrible face,?And I saw -- how I envied him!?A girl of such delicate grace;?Sixteen, all laughter and love;?As gay as a linnet, and yet?As tenderly sweet as a dove;?Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.
Then I turned to the wall again.?(I was awfully blue, you see),?And I thought with a bitter pain:?"Such visions are not for me."?So