soon a serious problem.
The Dawn
(Givenchy)
The dawn comes creeping o’er the plains,
The saffron clouds are streaked with red,
I hear the creaking limber chains,
I see the drivers raise their reins
And urge their weary mules ahead.
And men go up and men go down,
The marching hosts are grand to see
In shrapnel-shivered trench and town,
In spinneys where the leaves of brown
Are falling on the dewy lea.
Lonely and still the village lies,
The houses sleeping, the blinds all drawn.
The road is straight as the bullet flies,
And villagers fix their waking eyes
On the shrapnel smoke that shrouds the dawn.
Out of the battle, out of the night,
Into the dawn and the blush of day,
The road that takes us back from the fight,
The road we love, it is straight and white,
And it runs from the battle, away, away.
Patrick MacGill
Back in Billets
We’re in billets again, and to-night, if you please,
I shall strap myself up in a Wolsey valise.
What’s that, boy? Your boots give you infinite pain?
You can chuck them away: we’re in billets again.
We’re in billets again now and, barring alarms,
There’ll be no occasion for standing to arms,
And you’ll find if you’d many night-watches to keep
That the hour before daylight’s the best hour for sleep.
We’re feasting on chocolate, cake, currant buns,
To a faint German-band obbligato of guns,
For I’ve noticed, wherever the regiment may go,
That we always end up pretty close to the foe.
But we’re safe out of reach of trench mortars and snipers
Five inches south-west of the ‘Esses’ in Ypres;
– Old Bob, who knows better, pronounces it Yper,
But don’t argue the point now – you’ll waken the sleeper.
Our host brings us beer up, our thirst for to quench,
So we’ll drink him good fortune in English and French:
– Bob, who finds my Parisian accent a blemish,
Goes one better himself in a torrent of Flemish.
It’s a fortnight on Friday since Christopher died,
And John’s at Boulogne with a hole in his side,
While poor Harry’s got lost, the Lord only knows where; –
May the Lord keep them all and ourselves in His care.
. . . Mustn’t think we don’t mind when a chap gets laid out,
They’ve taken the best of us, never a doubt;
But with life pretty busy and death rather near
We’ve no time for regret any more than for fear.
. . . Here’s a health to our host, Isidore Deschildre,
Himself and his wife and their plentiful childer,
And the brave aboyeur who bays our return;
More power to his paws when he treads by the churn!
You may speak of the Ritz or the Curzon (Mayfair)
And maintain that they keep you in luxury there:
If you’ve laid for six weeks on a water-logged plain,
Here’s the acme of comfort, in billets again.
Charles Scott-Moncrieff
Gonnehem
Of Gonnehem it shall be said
That we arrived there late and worn
With marching, and were given a bed
Of lovely straw. And then at morn
On rising from deep sleep saw dangle –
Shining in the sun to spangle,
The all-blue heaven – branch loads of red
Bright cherries which we bought to eat,
Dew-wet, dawn-cool, and sunny sweet.
There was a tiny court-yard, too,
Wherein one shady walnut grew.
Unruffled peace the farm encloses –
I wonder if beneath that tree,
The meditating hens still be.
Are the white walls now gay with roses?
Does the small fountain yet run free?
I wonder if that dog still dozes . . .
Some day we must go back to see.
F.W. Harvey
The Billet
A roof that hardly holds the rain;
Walls shaking to the hurricane;
Great doors upon their hinges creaking;
Great rats upon the rafters squeaking –
A midden in the courtyard reeking –
Yet oft I’ve sheltered, snug and warm,
Within that friendly old French farm!
To trudge in from the soaking trench –
The blasts that bite, the rains that drench –
To loosen off your ponderous pack,
To drop the harness from your back,
Deliberate pull each muddy boot
From each benumbed,
The Dawn
(Givenchy)
The dawn comes creeping o’er the plains,
The saffron clouds are streaked with red,
I hear the creaking limber chains,
I see the drivers raise their reins
And urge their weary mules ahead.
And men go up and men go down,
The marching hosts are grand to see
In shrapnel-shivered trench and town,
In spinneys where the leaves of brown
Are falling on the dewy lea.
Lonely and still the village lies,
The houses sleeping, the blinds all drawn.
The road is straight as the bullet flies,
And villagers fix their waking eyes
On the shrapnel smoke that shrouds the dawn.
Out of the battle, out of the night,
Into the dawn and the blush of day,
The road that takes us back from the fight,
The road we love, it is straight and white,
And it runs from the battle, away, away.
Patrick MacGill
Back in Billets
We’re in billets again, and to-night, if you please,
I shall strap myself up in a Wolsey valise.
What’s that, boy? Your boots give you infinite pain?
You can chuck them away: we’re in billets again.
We’re in billets again now and, barring alarms,
There’ll be no occasion for standing to arms,
And you’ll find if you’d many night-watches to keep
That the hour before daylight’s the best hour for sleep.
We’re feasting on chocolate, cake, currant buns,
To a faint German-band obbligato of guns,
For I’ve noticed, wherever the regiment may go,
That we always end up pretty close to the foe.
But we’re safe out of reach of trench mortars and snipers
Five inches south-west of the ‘Esses’ in Ypres;
– Old Bob, who knows better, pronounces it Yper,
But don’t argue the point now – you’ll waken the sleeper.
Our host brings us beer up, our thirst for to quench,
So we’ll drink him good fortune in English and French:
– Bob, who finds my Parisian accent a blemish,
Goes one better himself in a torrent of Flemish.
It’s a fortnight on Friday since Christopher died,
And John’s at Boulogne with a hole in his side,
While poor Harry’s got lost, the Lord only knows where; –
May the Lord keep them all and ourselves in His care.
. . . Mustn’t think we don’t mind when a chap gets laid out,
They’ve taken the best of us, never a doubt;
But with life pretty busy and death rather near
We’ve no time for regret any more than for fear.
. . . Here’s a health to our host, Isidore Deschildre,
Himself and his wife and their plentiful childer,
And the brave aboyeur who bays our return;
More power to his paws when he treads by the churn!
You may speak of the Ritz or the Curzon (Mayfair)
And maintain that they keep you in luxury there:
If you’ve laid for six weeks on a water-logged plain,
Here’s the acme of comfort, in billets again.
Charles Scott-Moncrieff
Gonnehem
Of Gonnehem it shall be said
That we arrived there late and worn
With marching, and were given a bed
Of lovely straw. And then at morn
On rising from deep sleep saw dangle –
Shining in the sun to spangle,
The all-blue heaven – branch loads of red
Bright cherries which we bought to eat,
Dew-wet, dawn-cool, and sunny sweet.
There was a tiny court-yard, too,
Wherein one shady walnut grew.
Unruffled peace the farm encloses –
I wonder if beneath that tree,
The meditating hens still be.
Are the white walls now gay with roses?
Does the small fountain yet run free?
I wonder if that dog still dozes . . .
Some day we must go back to see.
F.W. Harvey
The Billet
A roof that hardly holds the rain;
Walls shaking to the hurricane;
Great doors upon their hinges creaking;
Great rats upon the rafters squeaking –
A midden in the courtyard reeking –
Yet oft I’ve sheltered, snug and warm,
Within that friendly old French farm!
To trudge in from the soaking trench –
The blasts that bite, the rains that drench –
To loosen off your ponderous pack,
To drop the harness from your back,
Deliberate pull each muddy boot
From each benumbed,
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