Classic Poem

When stand-to hour is over we leave the parapet,
And scamper to our dug-out to smoke a cigarette;
The post has brought in parcels and letters for us all,
And now we'll light a candle, a little penny candle,
A tiny tallow candle, and stick it to the wall.

Dark shadows cringe and cower on roof and wall and floor,
And little roving breezes come rustling through the door;
We open up the letters of friends across the foam,
And thoughts go back to London, again we dream of London—
We see the lights of London, of London and of home.

We've parcels small and parcels of a quite gigantic size,
We've Devon cream and butter and apples baked in pies,
We'll make a night of feasting and all will have their fill—
See, cot-mate Bill has dainties, such dandy, dinky dainties,
She's one to choose the dainties, the maid that's gone on Bill.
Oh: Kensington for neatness; it packs its parcels well,
Though Bow is always bulky it isn't quite as swell,
But here there's no distinction 'twixt Kensington and Bow,
We're comrades in the dug-out, all equals in the dug-out,
We're comrades in the dug-out and fight a common foe.

Here comes the ration party with tins of bully stew—
“Clear off your ration party, we have no need of you;
“Maconachie for breakfast? It ain't no bloomin' use,
We're faring far, far better, our gifts from home are better,
Look here, we've something better than bully after Loos.”

The post comes trenchward nightly; we hail the post with glee,
Though now we're not as many as once we used to be,
For some have done their fighting, packed up and gone away,
And many boys are sleeping, no sound will break their sleeping,
Brave lusty comrades sleeping in little homes of clay.

We all have read our letters, but one's untouched so far,
An English maiden's letter to her sweetheart at the War,
And when we write in answer to tell her how he fell,
What can we say to cheer her? Oh, what is now to cheer her?
There's nothing left to cheer her except the news to tell.

We'll write to her to-morrow and this is what we'll say,
He breathed her name in dying; in peace he passed away—
No words about his moaning, his anguish and his pain,
When slowly, slowly dying. God! Fifteen hours in dying!
He lay a maimed thing dying, alone upon the plain.

We often write to mothers, to sweethearts and to wives,
And tell how those who loved them have given up their lives;
If we're not always truthful, our lies are always kind,
Our letters lie to cheer them, to solace and to cheer them,
Oh: anything to cheer them,—the women left behind.