Edward Shanks
THE WINTER SOLDIER
_September_ 1914--_April_ 1915
_The Winter Soldier._
I. TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF HIGH GERMANY
No more the English girls may go To follow with the drum But still they flock together To see the soldiers come; For horse and foot are marching by And the bold artillery: They're going to the cruel wars In Low Germany.
They're marching down by lane and town And they are hot and dry But as they marched together I heard the soldiers cry: "O all of us, both horse and foot And the proud artillery, We're going to the merry wars In Low Germany."
_August_, 1914
II. THE COMRADES
The men that marched and sang with me Are most of them in Flanders now: I lie abed and hear the wind Blow softly through the budding bough.
And they are scattered far and wide In this or that brave regiment; From trench to trench across the mud They go the way that others went.
They run with shining bayonet Or lie and take a careful aim And theirs it is to learn of death And theirs the joy and theirs the fame.
III. IN TRAINING
The wind is cold and heavy And storms are in the sky: Our path across the heather Goes higher and more high.
To right, the town we came from, To left, blue hills and sea: The wind is growing colder And shivering are we.
We drag with stiffening fingers Our rifles up the hill. The path is steep and tangled But leads to Flanders still.
IV. THE OLD SOLDIERS
We come from dock and shipyard, we come from car and train, We come from foreign countries to slope our arms again And, forming fours by numbers or turning to the right, We're learning all our drill again and 'tis a pretty sight.
Our names are all unspoken, our regiments forgotten, For some of us were pretty bad and some of us were rotten And some will misremember what once they learnt with pain And hit a bloody Serjeant and go to clink again.
V. GOING IN TO DINNER
Beat the knife on the plate and the fork on the can, For we're going in to dinner, so make all the noise you can, Up and down the officer wanders, looking blue, Sing a song to cheer him up, he wants his dinner too.
March into the dining-hall, make the tables rattle Like a dozen dam' machine guns in the bloody battle, Use your forks for drum-sticks, use your plates for drums, Make a most infernal clatter, here the dinner comes!
VI. ON TREK
Under a grey dawn, timidly breaking, Through the little village the men are waking, Easing their stiff limbs and rubbing their eyes; From my misted window I watch the sun rise. In the middle of the village a fountain stands, Round it the men sit, washing their red hands. Slowly the light grows, we call the roll over, Bring the laggards stumbling from their warm cover, Slowly the company gathers all together And the men and the officer look shyly at the weather. By the left, quick march! Off the column goes. All through the village all the windows unclose: At every window stands a child, early waking, To see what road the company is taking.