The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry by Various Contributors Page A

don’t want to go in the trenches no more,
    Where the whizz-bangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.
    Take me over the sea,
    Where the Alleyman can’t get at me.
    Oh my, I don’t want to die,
    I want to go home.
    I want to go home,
    10             I want to go home.
    I don’t want to visit la Belle France no more,
    For oh the Jack Johnsons they make such a roar.
    Take me over the sea,
    Where the snipers they can’t get at me.
    Oh my, I don’t want to die, I want to go home.
    Soldiers’ song
    If We Return
    (Rondeau)
    If we return, will England be
    Just England still to you and me?
    The place where we must earn our bread?
    We, who have walked among the dead.
    Â Â Â Â Â And watched the smile of agony,
    Â Â Â Â Â And seen the price of Liberty,
    Â Â Â Â Â Which we have taken carelessly
    Â Â Â Â Â From other hands. Nay, we shall dread,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â If we return,
    10                  Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily
    Â Â Â Â Â The things that men have died to free.
    Â Â Â Â Â Oh, English fields shall blossom red
    Â Â Â Â Â For all the blood that has been shed
    Â Â Â Â Â By men whose guardians are we,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â If we return.
    F. W. Harvey
    Blighty
    It seemed that it were well to kiss first earth
    On landing, having traversed the narrow seas,
    And grasp so little, tenderly, of this field of birth.
    France having trodden and lain on, travelled bending the knees.
    And having shed blood, known heart for her and last nerve freeze,
    Proved body past heart, and soul past (so we thought) any worth.
    For what so dear a thing as the first homecoming,
    The seeing smoke pillar aloft from the home dwellings;
    Sign of travel ended, lifted awhile the dooming
    10             Sentence of exile; homecoming, right of tale-tellings?
    But mud is on our fate after so long acquaintance,
    We find of England the first gate without Romance;
    Blue paved wharfs with dock-policemen and civic decency,
    Trains and restrictions, order and politeness and directions,
    Motion by black and white, guided ever about-ways
    And staleness with petrol-dust distinguishing days.
    A grim faced black-garbed mother efficient and busy
    Set upon housework, worn-minded and fantasy free –
    A work-house matron, forgetting her old birth friend – the sea.
    Ivor Gurney
    War Girls
    There’s the girl who clips your ticket for the train,
    Â Â Â Â Â And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor,
    There’s the girl who does a milk-round in the rain,
    Â Â Â Â Â And the girl who calls for orders at your door.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Strong, sensible, and fit,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â They’re out to show their grit,
    Â Â Â Â Â And tackle jobs with energy and knack.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â No longer caged and penned up,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â They’re going to keep their end up
    10                       Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.
    There’s the motor girl who drives a heavy van,
    Â Â Â Â Â There’s the butcher girl who brings your joint of meat,
    There’s the girl who cries ‘All fares, please!’ like a man,
    Â Â Â Â Â And the girl who whistles taxis up