Tourist

'Twas in a village in Lorraine

Whose name I quite forget,

I found I needfully was fain

To buy a serviette.

I sought a shop wherein they sell

Such articles as these,

And told a smiling mademoiselle;

'I want a towel, please.'



'Of kinds,' said she, 'I've only two,'

And took the bundles down;

And one was coloured azure blue,

And one was khaki brown.

With doubt I scratched my hoary head;

The quality was right;

The size too, yet I gravely said:

'Too bad you haven't white.'



That pretty maid had sunny hair,

Her gaze was free from guile,

And while I hesitated there

She watched me with a smile.

Then as I went to take the blue

She said 'Non' meaning no.

'Ze khaki ones are best, M'sieu:

Ze dirts zey do not show.'

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The Black Dudeen

Humping it here in the dug-out,

Sucking me black dudeen,

I'd like to say in a general way,

There's nothing like Nickyteen;

There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,

Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;

So be sure that a bloke

Has plenty to smoke,

If you wants him to fight your wars.



When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug,

I begin to think of my baccy plug.

I whittle a fill in my horny palm,

And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.

I trim the edges, I tamp it down,

I nurse a light with an anxious frown;

I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,

And all my face is a blissful grin;

And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,

And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;

In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,

For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.

Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow,

But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.



There was Micky and me on a night patrol,

Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;

And sure I thought I was worse than dead

Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head.

Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot,

Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.

And mind you, water up to your knees.

And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.

And if we ventured our noses out

A "typewriter" clattered its pills about.

The Field of Glory! Well, I don't think!

I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.



Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,

He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.

Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through;

Death and me 'as a wrongday voo.

But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag? --

I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag."

And there he shivered and cussed his luck,

So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.

And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it

Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit;

Like an infant takes to his mother's breast,

Poor little Micky! he went to rest.



But the dawn was near, though the night was black,

So I left him there and I started back.

And I laughed as the silly old bullets came,

For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name.

Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near,

And one little blighter just chipped me ear.

But there! I got to the trench all right,

When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright,

And a word that doesn't look well in type:

I'd clean forgotten me old clay pipe.



So I had to do it all over again,

Crawling out on that filthy plain.

Through shells and bombs and bullets and all --

Only this time -- I do not crawl.

I run like a man wot's missing a train,

Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.

I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun

Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.

Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,

(Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!)

I run like a man that's no ideer

Of hunting around for a sooveneer.

I run bang into a German chap,

And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.

And just to show him that I'm his boss,

I gives him a kick on the parados.

And I marches him back with me all serene,

Wiv, tucked in me grup, me old dudeen.



Sitting here in the trenches

Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen,

For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head,

But it smashes me old dudeen.

God blast that red-headed sniper!

I'll give him somethin' to snipe;

Before the war's through

Just see how I do

That blighter that smashed me pipe.

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Winnie

When I went by the meadow gate

The chestnut mare would trot to meet me,

And as her coming I would wait,

She'd whinney high as if to greet me.

And I would kiss her silky nose,

And stroke her neck until it glistened,

And speak soft words: I don't suppose

She understand; but how she listened!



Then in the war-net I was caught,

Returning three black winters older;

And when the little mare I sought

The farmer told me he had sold her.

And so time passed; when in the street

One day I heard a plaintive whinney

That roused a recollection sweet,

So then I turned and there was Winnie.



I vow she knew me, mooning there.

She raised her nose for me to fondle,

And though I'd lost an arm I'll swear

She kissed the empty sleeve a-dangle.

But oh it cut me to the heart,

Though I was awful glad to meet her,

For lo! she dragged a tinker's cart

And stumbled weakly as he beat her.



Just skin and bone, a sorry hack!

Say, fellow, you may think it funny:



I made a deal and bought her back,



Though it took all my bonus money.

And she'll be in the meadow there,

As long as I have dough for spending . . .

Gee! I'll take care of that old mare -

"Sweetheart! you'll have a happy ending."

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Two Graves

First Ghost



To sepulcher my mouldy bones

I bough a pile of noble stones,

And half a year a sculptor spent

To hew my marble monument,

The stateliest to rear its head

In all this city of the dead.



And generations passing through

Will gape, and ask: What did he do

To earn this tomb so rich and rare,

In Attic grace beyond compare?

How was his life in honour spent,

To worthy this proud monument?



What did I do" Well, nothing much.

'Tis true I had the Midas touch.

A million pounds I made wherewith

To glorify the name: John Smith;

Yet not a soul wept for me when

Death raft me from my fellow men.

My sculptor wins undying fame,

While I, who paid, am just a name.



Second Ghost



A wooden cross surveys my bones,

With on it stenciled: Peter Jones.

And round it are five hundred more;

(A proper job did old man War!)

So young they were, so fresh, so fit,

So hopeful; that's the hell of it.



The old are sapped and ripe to die,

But in the flush of Spring was I.

I might have fathered children ten,

To come to grips with sterling men;

And now a cross in weeds to rot,

Is all to show how fierce I fought.



The old default, the young must pay;

My life was wasted, thrown away.

While people gladden, to forget

The bitterness of vein regret,

With not a soul to morn for me

My skull grins up in mockery.

. . . Pale crosses greet the grieving stars,

And always will be; War and Wars.

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Remorse

That scathing word I used in scorn

(Though half a century ago)

Comes back to me this April morn,

Like boomerang to work me woe;

Comes back to me with bitter blame

(Though apple boughs are blossoming),

And oh! the anguish of my shame

Is sharper than a serpent's sting!



Age sensitizes us to pain,

And when remembrance of some word

We spoke in wrath return again,

It stab is like a driven sword. . . .

And if in some celestial span

Our hearts in penitence may bleed

For all the hurt we've done to man -

Ah, that would be a hell indeed!



So friends, be careful of your words,

Though other breasts may meet their steel,

Lest they return like vengeful swords,

Till yours the wounds that never heal,

For Age the heart to mercy mellows;

Foul memories haunt like evil elves:

let us be gentle to our fellows,

And win God's mercy for ourselves.

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Duello

A Frenchman and an Englishman

Resolved to fight a duel,

And hit upon a savage plan,

Because their hate was cruel.

They each would fire a single shot

In room of darkness pitchy,

And who was killed and who was not

Would hang on fingers twitchy.



The room was bare and dark as death,

And each ferocious fighter

Could hear his fierce opponent's breath

And clutched his pistol tighter.

The Gaston fired; the bullet hissed

On its destructive mission . . .

"Thank God!" said John Bull. "He has missed."

The Frenchman cried: "Perdition!"



Then silence followed like a spell,

And as the Briton sought to

Reply he wondered where the hell

His Gallic foe had got to.



And then he thought: "I'll mercy show,

Since Hades is a dire place

To send a fellow to; and so

I'll blase up through the fireplace."



So up the chimney he let fly,

Of grace a gallant henchman;

When lo! a sudden cry,

And down there crashed the Frenchman . . .

But if this yard in France you tell,

Although its vein be skittish,

I think it might be just as well

To make your Frenchman; British.

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Poet And Peer

They asked the Bard of Ayr to dine;

The banquet hall was fit and fine,

With gracing it a Lord;

The poet came; his face was grim

To find the place reserved for him

Was at the butler's board.



So when the gentry called him in,

He entered with a knavish grin

And sipped a glass of wine;

But when they asked would he recite

Something of late he'd chanced to write

He ettled to decline.



Then with a sly, sardonic look

He opened up a little book

Containing many a gem;

And as they sat in raiment fine,

So smug and soused with rosy wine,

This verse he read to them.



'You see yon birkie caw'ed a Lord,

Who struts and stares an' a' that,

Though hundreds worship at his word

He's but a coof for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

A man's a man for a' that.



He pointed at that portly Grace

Who glared with apoplectic face,

While others stared with gloom;

Then having paid them all he owed,

Burns, Bard of Homespun, smiled and strode

Superbly from the room.

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The Portrait

The portrait there above my bed

They tell me is a work of art;

My Wife,--since twenty years she's dead:

Her going nearly broke my heart.

Alas! No little ones we had

To light our hearth with joy and glee;

Yet as I linger lone and sad

I know she's waiting me.



The picture? Sargent painted it,

And it has starred in many a show.

Her eyes are on me where I sit,

And follow me where'er I go.

She'll smile like that when I am gone,

And I am frail and oh so ill!

Aye, when I'm waxen, cold and wan,

Lo! She'll be smiling still.



So I have bade them slash in strips

That relic of my paradise.

Let flame destroy those lovely lips

And char the starlight of her eyes!

No human gaze shall ever see

Her beauty,--stranger heart to stir:

Nay, her last smile shall be for me,

My last look be for her.

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The Host

I never could imagine God:

I don't suppose I ever will.

Beside His altar fire I nod

With senile drowsiness but still

In old of age as sight grows dim

I have a sense of Him.



For when I count my sum of days

I find so many sweet and good,

My mind is full of peace and praise,

My heart aglow with gratitude.

For my long living in the sun

I want to thank someone.



Someone who has been kind to me;

Some power within, if not on high,

Who shaped my gentle destiny,

And led me pleasant pastures by:

Who taught me, whether gay or grave,

To love the life He gave.



A Host of charity and cheer,

Within a Tavern warm and bright;

Who smiles and bids me have no fear

As forth I fare into the night:

From whom I beg no Heav'n, but bless

For earthly happiness.

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