In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; O patient eyes, courageous hearts! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy-of-Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings. _Julian Grenfell_ _Flanders, April, 1915_ THE CRICKETERS OF FLANDERS The first to climb the parapet With "cricket balls" in either hand; The first to vanish in the smoke Of God-forsaken No Man's Land; First at the wire and soonest through, First at those red-mouthed hounds of hell, The Maxims, and the first to fall,-- They do their bit and do it well. Full sixty yards I've seen them throw With all that nicety of aim They learned on British cricket-fields. Ah, bombing is a Briton's game! Shell-hole to shell-hole, trench, to trench, "Lobbing them over" with an eye As true as though it _were_ a game And friends were having tea close by. Pull down some art-offending thing Of carven stone, and in its stead Let splendid bronze commemorate These men, the living and the dead. No figure of heroic size, Towering skyward like a god; But just a lad who might have stepped From any British bombing squad. His shrapnel helmet set atilt, His bombing waistcoat sagging low, His rifle slung across his back: Poised in the very act to throw. And let some graven legend tell Of those weird battles in the West Wherein he put old skill to use, And played old games with sterner zest. Thus should he stand, reminding those In less-believing days, perchance, How Britain's fighting cricketers Helped bomb the Germans out of France. And other eyes than ours would see; And other hearts than ours would thrill; And others say, as we have said: "A sportsman and a soldier still!" _James Norman Hall_ "ALL THE HILLS AND VALES ALONG" All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping. Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath. For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour.