More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Murray McClymont
MURRAY McCLYMONT
2nd Lieut., 2/10th (Scottish) K.L.R.
God's Acre
Dedicated to my "skipper," Captain Alan Cookson (killed in action 27th June, 1917), who now sleeps eternally in the shadow of the little grey church at . . .
WHEN sands of Time have run their course
And mortal heart is stilled,
We render back unto its Source
The dust that He fulfilled;
And in some still, subduéd spot
Where all is peace, and they
Who walk the silent paths are taught
To meditate and pray,
We to that dust its rest afford
And dry our idle tears:
For Death is peace, and Peace adored
Reigns here throughout the years.
B.E.F., France, Sept., 1917.
Hills of Home
TO gloam-blue hills that shadow moorland spaces,
To legend-haunted vales where all is still,
To that grey land where slumber martyred races,
My spirit flees at will.
I hear from far away the whaup's wild crying
Low o'er the moor and wind-swept fringe of sea,
And longing fills my breast and I am sighing—
Sighing for love of thee.
I see, as in a spell, the bracken flowing
Like silver streams beneath a battered moon;
I see the heather darker, redder blowing—
Flushing to crimson soon!
In dreams I roam the long-forsaken places,
In scented wood, by rill and grassy howe;
And, smiling, greet the old familiar faces—
And I am happy now!
Dear Hills of Home, I ask but this of Heaven
(If thou my captive spirit wilt not free!)
That in my dying moments I be given
One last, fond kiss from thee.
1916.
To a Fallen Comrade
I HEARD the voice of Spring come softly pleading
Across the fresh and breathing wold to-day:
The sun, set free from cloudy bonds, was speeding
To greet the earth with each impassioned ray.
Wide-flung my casement in the cool I listened!
The birds were busy toying with a song,
And far afield where dappled grasses glistened
The meadow brook was murmuring along.
And then there came a bee with yet the numbing
Languors of the winter on its wings:
It turned to gold the quiet with its humming—
And then resumed its drowsy wanderings.
I looked upon the fields and trees and hedges
And saw before mine eyes a world reborn,
And on beyond the green world's utmost edges . . .
Where Hope retreated bleeding and forlorn!
Ah! then I knew that Spring would only bring me
Blue skies and songs and flowers drenched with dew!
Ah! then I knew that Spring could never bring me
The friend I had and, having, lost in you!
April, 1917.