So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying That Yvonne is long delaying . . . _GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!_ A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . (English voice, months later):-- "_OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME._" Young Fellow My Lad "Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, On this glittering morn of May?" "I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; They're looking for men, they say." "But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad; You aren't obliged to go." "I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad, And ever so strong, you know." . . . . . "So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad, And you're looking so fit and bright." "I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad, But I feel that I'm doing right." "God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad, You're all of my life, you know." "Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, And I'm awfully proud to go." . . . . . "Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad? I watch for the post each day; And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, And it's months since you went away. And I've had the fire in the parlour lit, And I'm keeping it burning bright Till my boy comes home; and here I sit Into the quiet night." . . . . . "What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad? No letter again to-day. Why did the postman look so sad, And sigh as he turned away? I hear them tell that we've gained new ground, But a terrible price we've paid: God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; But oh I'm afraid, afraid." . . . . . "They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad: You'll never come back again: _(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)_ For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, And you proved in the cruel test Of the screaming shell and the battle hell That my boy was one of the best.