Chapter C: Conway Plumbe

Sept. 1, 1915.

"_Quat' Sous Lait_"

Marie Thérèse is passing fair,
Marie Thérèse has red gold hair,
Marie Thérèse is passing shy,
And Marie Thérèse is passing by;
Soldiers lounging along the street
Smile as they rise to their aching feet,
And with aching hearts they make their way
After the maiden for _quat' sous lait_.

Beer in the mug is amber brown,
Beer in the mug is the stuff to drown
Dust and drought and a parching thirst;
Beer in the mug comes an easy first,
Except when Marie Thérèse is near,
With the sun in her tresses so amber clear;
Then quickly we leave our estaminets
For Marie Thérèse's _quat' sous lait_.

Yvonne Pol of _La Belle Française_
Cannot compare with Marie Thérèse;
Berthe of the "Coq" looks old and staid
When one but thinks of our dairymaid;
Beer in the mug is good to quench
Thirsts of men who can speak no French;
Heaven is ours who can smile and say,
"Marie Thérèse, give me _quat' sous lait_."

DENIS GARSTIN.
Aug. 18, 1915.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE.
Dec. 8, 1915.

_Dulce et Decorum_

O young and brave, it is not sweet to die,
To fall and leave no record of the race,
A little dust trod by the passers-by,
Swift feet that press your lonely resting-place;
Your dreams unfinished, and your song unheard--
Who wronged your youth by such a careless word?

All life was sweet--veiled mystery in its smile;
High in your hands you held the brimming cup;
Love waited at your bidding for a while,
Not yet the time to take its challenge up;
Across the sunshine came no faintest breath
To whisper of the tragedy of death.

And then, beneath the soft and shining blue,
Faintly you heard the drum's insistent beat;
The echo of its urgent note you knew,
The shaken earth that told of marching feet;
With quickened breath you heard your country's call,
And from your hands you let the goblet fall.

You snatched the sword, and answered as you went,
For fear your eager feet should be outrun,
And with the flame of your bright youth unspent
Went shouting up the pathway to the sun.
O valiant dead, take comfort where you lie.
So sweet to live? Magnificent to die!

MRS. ROBERTSON GLASGOW.
Jan. 26, 1916.

The Nurse

Here in the long white ward I stand,
Pausing a little breathless space,
Touching a restless fevered hand,
Murmuring comfort's commonplace--

Long enough pause to feel the cold
Fingers of fear about my heart;
Just for a moment, uncontrolled,
All the pent tears of pity start.

While here I strive, as best I may,
Strangers' long hours of pain to ease,
Dumbly I question--_Far away
Lies my beloved even as these?_

MISS G. M. MITCHELL.
Aug. 30, 1916.

Jimmy--Killed in Action

Horses he loved, and laughter, and the sun,
A song, wide spaces and the open air;
The trust of all dumb living things he won,
And never knew the luck too good to share.

His were the simple heart and open hand,
And honest faults he never strove to hide;
Problems of life he could not understand,
But as a man would wish to die he died.

Now, though he will not ride with us again,
His merry spirit seems our comrade yet,
Freed from the power of weariness or pain,
Forbidding us to mourn--or to forget.

W. K. HOLMES.
Aug. 1, 1917.

The Inn o' the Sword

A SONG OF YOUTH AND WAR.

Roving along the King's highway
I met wi' a Romany black.
"Good day," says I; says he, "Good day,
And what may you have in your pack?"
"Why, a shirt," says I, "and a song or two
To make the road go faster."
He laughed: "Ye'll find or the day be through
There's more nor that, young master.
Oh, roving's good and youth is sweet
And love is its own reward;
But there's that shall stay your careless feet
When ye come to the Sign o' the Sword."

"Riddle me, riddlemaree," quoth I,
"Is a game that's ill to win,
And the day is o'er fair such tasks to try"--
Said he, "Ye shall know at the inn."
With that he suited his path to mine
And we travelled merrily,
Till I was ware of the promised sign
And the door of an hostelry.
And the Romany sang, "To the very life
Ye shall pay for bed and board;
Will ye turn aside to the House of Strife?
Will ye lodge at the Inn o' the Sword?"

Then I looked at the inn 'twixt joy and fear,
And the Romany looked at me.
Said I, "We ha' come to a parting here
And I know not who you be."
But he only laughed as I smote on the door:
"Go, take ye the fighting chance;
Mayhap I once was a troubadour
In the knightly days of France.
Oh, the feast is set for those who dare
And the reddest o' wine outpoured;
And some sleep sound after peril and care
At the Hostelry of the Sword."

A. L. JENKINS.
Jan. 24, 1917.

The Lighted Way

Little beam of purest ray
Lying like a path of glory
Through the chimney-pots that sway
Over London's topmost storey,
Lighting to the knightly fray
Pussies black and brown and gray,
Lovesick tenors young and gay,
Whiskered bassos old and hoary,
Shining from my attic room
Thou dost lure them to their doom.

How could I without thine aid
Greet their ill-timed serenade?
How discover in the dark
If the hair-brush found its mark,
Or distinguish hits from misses
As the whistling soap-dish hisses,
Lifting like a bursting bomb
James, the next door neighbour's Tom?

Now by nailing half a kipper
Neath thy radiance I can down
(Aiming carefully at the brown
With a bootjack or a slipper)
Half the amorous cats in Town.
Now as I remove my boots
I can count the stricken brutes,
Chalking as I pass to bed
On the wall above my head,
"Thirteen wounded, seven dead."

I have strafed the surly Fritz
In the neighbourhood of "Wipers,"
Bombed the artless Turk to bits,
Potted his elusive snipers,
Blown his comfortable lair
Like a nest of stinging vipers
Several hundred feet in air;
But the sport was tame, I wis,
In comparison with this,
When the bottle built for stout
Lays the chief soprano out,
And the heavy letter-weight
Drums on her astonished mate,
Ginger Bill, the bass, who falls
Uttering fearful caterwauls.

* * * *

(_Later._) Baleful shaft of light,
Blazing like a ruddy beacon,
Guiding through the starless night
Zeppelins that come to wreak on
Sleeping Londoners the might
Of Teutonic _schrecklichkeit_,
Tears bedew the pillow white
Which I lay my blenching cheek on,
For the minion of the law,
Who in peace-time droops and drowses,
From a point of vantage saw,
Gleaming high above the houses,
Thee, incriminating ray,
And--there is a fine to pay.