Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/E. F. Wilkinson, M.C.

E. F. WILKINSON, M.C.

Lieut., 1/8th Battalion, West Yorks. (Leeds Rifles)

 

Dad o' Mine

MIDSUMMER-DAY, and the mad world a-fighting,
Fighting in holes, Dad o' Mine.
Nature's old spells are no longer delighting
Passion-filled souls, Dad o' Mine.
Vainly the birds in the branches are singing,
Vainly the sunshine its message is bringing,
Over the green-clad earth stark hate is flinging
Shadow for shine, Dad o' Mine,
Shadow for shine.

No one dare prophesy when comes an end to it,
End to the strife, Dad o' Mine.
When we can take joy and once again bend to it
What's left of life, Dad o' Mine.
Yet for one day we'll let all slip behind us,
So that your birthday, Dad, still may remind us
How strong yet supple the bonds are that bind us
Through shade and shine, Dad o' Mine,
Through shade and shine.

Leagues lie between us, but leagues cannot sever
Links forged by Love, Dad o' Mine,
Bonds of his binding are fast bound forever,
Future will prove, Dad o' Mine.
Your strength was mine since I first lisped your name, Dad,
Your thoughts were my thoughts at lesson or game, Dad,
In childhood's griefs, it was ever the same, Dad,
Your hand round mine, Dad o' Mine,
Your hand round mine.

Strengthened by shadow and shine borne together,
Comrades and chums, Dad o' mine,
We shall not falter thro' fair or foul weather,
Whatever comes, Dad o' Mine.
So in the years to be when you grow older,
Age puts his claims in and weakness grows bolder;
We'll stand up and meet them, Dad, shoulder to shoulder,
Your arm in mine, Dad o' mine,
Your arm in mine.

 

To "My People," before the "Great Offensive"

DARK with uncertainty of doubtful doom
The future looms across the path we tread;
Yet, undismayed we gaze athwart the gloom,
Prophetically tinged with hectic red.
The mutterings of conflict, sullen, deep,
Surge over homes where hopeless tears are shed,
And ravens their ill-omened vigils keep
O'er legions dead.

But louder, deeper, fiercer still shall be
The turmoil and the rush of furious feet,
The roar of war shall roll from sea to sea,
And on the sea, where fleet engages fleet.
The fortunate who can, unharmed, depart
From that last field where Right and Wrong shall meet.
If then, amidst some millions more, this heart
⁠Should cease to beat,—

Mourn not for me too sadly; I have been,
For months of an exalted life, a King;
Peer for these months of those whose graves grow green
Where'er the borders of our empire fling
Their mighty arms. And if the crown is death,
Death while I'm fighting for my home and king,
Thank God the son who drew from you his breath
⁠To death could bring

A not entirely worthless sacrifice,
Because of those brief months when life meant more
Than selfish pleasures. Grudge not then the price,
But say, "Our country in the storm of war
Has found him fit to fight and die for her,"
And lift your heads in pride for evermore.
But when the leaves the evening breezes stir
⁠Close not the door.

For if there's any consciousness to follow
The deep, deep slumber that we know as Death,
If Death and Life are not all vain and hollow,
If Life is more than so much indrawn breath,
Then in the hush of twilight I shall come—
One with immortal Life, that knows not Death
But ever changes form—I shall come home;
⁠Although, beneath

A wooden cross the clay that once was I
Has ta'en its ancient earthy form anew.
But listen to the wind that hurries by,
To all the Song of Life for tones you knew.
For in the voice of birds, the scent of flowers,
The evening silence and the falling dew,
Through every throbbing pulse of nature's powers
⁠I'll speak to you.

 

WM. BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND