I really hate to leave you,         Old Fusee— To the clinging, clogging dust— To the all-destroying crust Of a clawing, gnawing rust—         Unmercifully. I really hate to leave you,         Old Fusee— But they’ve plugged me good and hard, So I quit you, trusty pard, As I creep back rather marred,         To old Blightee. I really hate to leave you,         Old Fusee— With your bore a brilliant sheen, And your metals black and clean, Where your brown striped stock and lean         Gleams tigerishly. I really hate to leave you,         Old Fusee— For the wanton weather’s hate, And careless hands to desecrate Barrel, bolt and butt and plate,         Unthinkingly. I really hate to leave you,         Old Fusee— And I bear a double pain As I pause to turn again Where I left you on the plain,         Unwillingly. THE COLORS OF BLIGHTY. _The shades of red an’ white an’ blue_ _Mean rather more to me an’ you,_ _Than just parades an’ bands an’ such_ _And hollerin’ loud an’ talking much._ The wounds are dark and red—     All jagged-red in Blighty: And untamed hearts are red Where, stretching bed on bed, Lies lax each weary head,         In Blighty. The walls are blank and white—     All fresh and white in Blighty: And cheeks are gaunt and white, Where through the endless night They fight the second fight,         In Blighty. Outside the skies are blue—     Soft, cloud-flecked blue o’er Blighty But clear, relentless blue Of purpose steeled anew Lies there revealed to you         In every eye in Blighty. _The shades of red an’ white an’ blue_ _Mean rather more to me an’ you,_ _Than just parades an’ bands an’ such_ _And hollerin’ loud an’ talking much._ WHEN NURSE COMES IN. (Convalescent stage.) The stories sure are rich and rare, They’d strike you blind, they’d turn your hair, They’re dark as coal down in the bin—         Till Nurse comes in. The language is an awful hue, Astreak with crimson shades and blue; ’Twould scorch a mammoth’s leather skin—         Till Nurse comes in. Words run the gamut of the trench— They beat old Mustard Gas for stench, They rise with oscillating din—         Till Nurse comes in. The cussin’s quaint and loud and strong, Imported stuff, that don’t belong In dictionaries fat or thin—         Till Nurse comes in. And then you’d be surprised to hear The change of pace, the shift o’ gear, The dainty tales that just begin—         When Nurse comes in. CHARLIE CHAPLIN IN BLIGHTY. The mess-hall windows blanketed     To bar the western light— The tables cleaned and cleared away, And bench by bench in close array Five hundred convalescents sway     To catch the caption bright. And there are men with helpless legs,     And torn chest and back; And men with arms in sling and splint, And one poor eye that bears no glint, And muscles limp or turned to flint—     And souls upon the rack.