Voices of Silence

Voices of Silence by Vivien Noakes Page A

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Authors: Vivien Noakes
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frost-bitten foot;
    To wrap your body in your blanket,
    To mutter o’er a ‘Lord be thankit!’
    Sink out of sight below the straw,
    Then – Owre the hills and far awa’!
    *   *   *
    Perchance to waken from your sleep,
    And hear the big guns growling deep,
    Turn on your side, but breathe a prayer
    For beggars you have left up ‘there’.
    Then in the morn to stretch your legs,
    And hear the hens cluck o’er their eggs;
    And chanticleer’s bestirring blare;
    The whinnying of the Captain’s mare;
    Contented lowing of the kine,
    Complacent grunting of the swine;
    Chirping of birds beneath the eaves,
    Whisper of winds among the leaves,
    And – sound that soul of man rejoices –
    The pleasant hum of women’s voices –
    With all the cheery dins that be
    In a farmyard community;
    While sunlight bursting thro’ the thatch
    Burns in the black barn, patch and patch.
    By now your eyes and ears you ope –
    The pipes are skirling, ‘Johnnie Cope’ –
    And you arise to toil and trouble,
    And certainly to ‘double! double!’ –
    Of the day’s drills, must grudged of all
    That lagging hour called ‘physical!’
    Breakfast, of tea, and bread, and ham,
    With just a colouring of jam;
    Or, if you have the sous to pay,
    A feast of œufs and café-au-lait .
    Comes ten o’clock and we fall in,
    With rifle cleaned, and shaven chin;
    Once more we work the ‘manual’ through,
    And then ‘drill in platoons’ we do
    Till one, or maybe even two.
    At last ‘cook-house’ the pipers play,
    And so we dine as best we may.
    And now a shout that never fails
    To fetch us forth, ‘Here come the mails!’ –
    While one rejoices, t’other rails
    Because he has received no letter –
    Next time the Fates may use him better!
    Then comes an hour beneath a tree,
    With ‘Omar Khayyam’ on your knee,
    While wanton winds, in idle sport,
    Bombard you after harmless sort
    With apple blossoms from the bough –
    Ah! here is Paradise enow!
    ’Tis now that mystic hour of night
    When – parcels open – no respite
    Is given to cake, sweetmeat, sardine;
    Our zest would turn a gourmet green
    With envy, could he only see
    The meal out here, that’s yclep ‘tea’.
    The night has come, and all are hearty,
    Being exempt from a ‘working party’:
    And so we gather round the fire
    To chat, and presently conspire
    To pass an hour with song and story –
    The grave, the gay, ghostly or gory, –
    A tale, let’s say, both weird and fierce,
    By Allan Poe or Ambrose Bierce,
    Then Skerry – Peace be to his Shade! –
    May play us Gounod’s ‘Serenade’,
    And, gazing thro’ the broken beams,
    Perchance we see the starry gleams.
    *   *   *
    But ‘Lights-out!’ sounds; ‘Good nights’ are said,
    And so we bundle off to bed.
    Sweet dreams infest each drowsy head
    And kindly Ghosts that work no harm
    Flit round about that old French farm!
    Joseph Lee
    The Camp in the Sands
    Down in the hollow of the dunes one night
    We made our bivouac; serene and bright
    The autumn day drew to its early close.
    While still the west was red, the moon arose
    And flung the witchery of her silver lamp
    Over the bustle of our hasty camp.
    Beyond the crested dunes the windy sea
    Murmured all night, now near, now distantly:
    And eerily around us we could hark
    The grass’s widespread whisper in the dark,
    As if the Little People of the Sands
    Gathered about us in their stealthy bands.
    Within the dip where our encampment lay
    The lines of weary horses munched their hay
    Or pawed the sand with quick, uneasy hoof;
    A glowing cook-fire flickered red aloof,
    From which a drift of soft blue smoke was blown;
    The loudest voice soon sank to undertone,
    Amidst the empty space ’twixt sand and sky,
    Ruled by the moon that rose so splendidly.
    All night around the camp our watch we kept,
    Posted on crests of sandy billows; swept
    From eve till dawn by the unbroken wind,
    Our eyes towards the dark; our camp behind.
    W. Kersley Holmes
    Letters to Tommy
    Oh, friends

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