Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he; "But noo I can play in the street for bawbees, Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain, He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: 'The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: "I'll--no--play--nae--mair----" feebly doon frae his hand Slipped the wee penny whistle and--_SANDY WIS DEID._ . . . . . And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads, Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. The Stretcher-Bearer My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot--I'm sick with pain For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; Around me is the 'ellish night, And as the war's red rim I trace, I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, Our God don't turn away 'Is Face. I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see As man destroys his brother man; I waves no flag: I only know, As 'ere beside the dead I wait, A million 'earts is weighed with woe, A million 'omes is desolate. In drippin' darkness, far and near, All night I've sought them woeful ones. Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear The crimson chorus of the guns. Look! like a ball of blood the sun 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" _O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?_ Wounded Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, I did my decent job and earned my pay; Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. Ay, in my little groove I was content, Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, With prosy days in stolid labour spent, And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store. Stranger than any book I've ever read. Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; But calm, and feeling never pain at all, And full of wonder at the turn of it. For of the dead around me three are mine, Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; So if I die I have no right to whine, I feel I've done my little bit all right. I don't know how--but there the beggars are, As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.