Voices of Silence (6 page)

Sometimes he pipes us grave notes,

Sometimes he pipes up gay;

Till broken feet

Take up the beat

Of quick-step or Strathspey:

But he plays upon our heart-strings

When he plays a Scottish tune –

Hear Jimmy Morgan

And his old mouth-organ

At ‘The Banks o’ Bonnie Doon’!

He has a twist upon his mouth,

A twinkle in his e’e;

A roguish air,

A deil-ma-care,

Like the Piper o’ Dundee:

Faith! we would dance thro’ half o’ France,

And a’ the trenches carry,

If Jimmy Morgan

On his old mouth-organ,

Did but give us ‘Annie Laurie’!

And when the war is over –

The war we mean to win –

And Kaiser Bill

Has had his pill,

And we boys march thro’ Berlin;

‘Unter den Linden’ going,

We’ll need no pipes to blow –

Just Jimmy Morgan

And his old mouth-organ,

Leading us as we go!

‘Highland laddie, Highland laddie; whar hae you been a’ the day?’

And when this life is ended,

And Morgan gone aloft,

He will not carp

Tho’ he get no harp,

Nor trumpet sweet and soft;

But if there be a place for him

In the Angelic choir,

Give Jimmy Morgan

His old mouth-organ,

And he’ll play and never tire.

Joseph Lee

We’ve each our Tipperary, who shout that haunting song,

And all the more worth reaching because the way is long;

You’ll hear the hackneyed chorus until it tires your brain

Unless you feel the thousand hopes disguised in that refrain.

We’ve each our Tipperary – some hamlet, village, town,

To which our ghosts would hasten though we laid our bodies down,

Some spot of little showing our spirits still would seek,

And strive, unseen, to utter what now we fear to speak.

We’ve each our Tipperary, our labour to inspire,

Some mountain-top or haven, some goal of far desire –

Some old forlorn ambition, or humble, happy hope

That shines beyond the doubting with which our spirits cope.

We’ve each our Tipperary – near by or wildly far;

For some it means a fireside, for some it means a star;

For some it’s but a journey by homely roads they know,

For some a spirit’s venture where none but theirs may go.

We’ve each our Tipperary, where rest and love and peace

Mean just a mortal maiden, or Dante’s Beatrice:

We growl a song together, to keep the marching swing,

But who shall dare interpret the chorus that we sing?

W. Kersley Holmes

Wilhelm, I do not know your whereabouts.

The gods elude us. When we would detect your

Earthly address, ’tis veiled in misty doubts

Of devious conjecture.

At Nancy, in a moist trench, I am told

That you performed an unrehearsed lustration;

That there you linger, having caught a cold,

Followed by inflammation.

Others assert that your asbestos hut,

Conveyed (with you inside) to Polish regions,

Promises to afford a likely butt

To Russia’s wingèd legions.

But, whether this or that (or both) be true,

Or merely tales of which we have the air full,

In any case I say, ‘O Wilhelm, do,

Do, if you can, be careful!’

For if, by evil chance, upon your head,

Your precious head, some impious shell alighted,

I should regard my dearest hopes as dead,

My occupation blighted.

I want to save you for another scene,

Having perused a certain Manifesto

That stimulates an itching, very keen,

In every Briton’s best toe –

An Order issued to your Army’s flower,

Giving instructions most precise and stringent

For the immediate wiping out of our

‘Contemptible’ contingent.

Well, that’s a reason why I’d see you spared;

So take no risks, but rather heed my warning,

Because I have a little plan prepared

For Potsdam, one fine morning.

I see you ringed about with conquering foes –

See you, in penitential robe (with taper),

Invited to assume a bending pose

And eat that scrap of paper!

Owen Seaman

Waking at six, I lie and wait

Until the papers come at eight.

I skim them with an anxious eye

Ere duly to my bath I hie,

Postponing till I’m fully dressed

My study of the daily pest.

Then, seated at my frugal board,

My rasher served, my tea outpoured,

I disentangle news official

From reams of comment unjudicial,

Until at half-past nine I rise

Bemused by all this ‘wild surmise’,

And for my daily treadmill bound

Fare eastward on the underground.

But, whether in the train or when

I reach my dim official den,

Placards designed to thrill and scare

Affront my vision everywhere,

And double windows can’t keep out

The newsboy’s penetrating shout.

For when the morning papers fail

The evening press takes up the tale,

And, fired by curious competition,

Edition following on edition,

The headline demons strain and strive

Without a check from ten till five,

Extracting from stale news some phrase

To shock, to startle or amaze,

Or finding a daring innuendo –

All swelling in one long crescendo,

Till, shortly after five o’clock,

When business people homeward flock,

From all superfluous verbiage freed

Comes Joffre’s calm laconic screed,

And all the bellowings of the town

Quelled by the voice of Truth die down,

Enabling you and me to win

Twelve hours’ release from Rumour’s din.

C.L. Graves

The Army has suffered an awful rout

In the terrible battle of (
place left out
),

But the enemy’s hordes have been defeated

On the banks of the River (
name deleted
).

The Austrians, under General Dank,

Attacked the Russians at (
name left blank
).

On the road near (
cut
) they fled in fear,

But they turned and fought at (
blue-pencilled here
).

Our men have had but little rest

Since the fighting began at (
name suppressed
).

But a funny thing happened – we had to laugh –

When (
word gone
) we (
missing paragraph
).

If the Censor destroys this letter, well –

I wish the Censor would go to ---------

(
Deletion by Censor
).

Oh! where are those Russians,

Those hairy-faced Russians,

That sailed from Archangel and landed in Leith;

Who came o’er in millions,

Some say, sir, in trillions,

With big furry caps on and armed to the teeth?

Explain, Mister Censor,

And end our suspense, sir,

And don’t keep us all in this horrible stew,

Pray say where you’ve trained them,

Or where you’ve detained them,

We know for a fact that these Russians passed through.

For uncles, aunts, cousins,

In scores and in dozens,

From all over England have written to say,

They gave them hot coffee,

‘Chocks’, fruit and mint toffee,

And bade them God-speed as their train steamed away.

Besides, and moreover,

From Leith down to Dover,

Guards, drivers, and pointsmen could tell us all but,

They’d quickly get sacked, sir,

And so with great tact, sir,

They wink at our questions and keep their mouths shut.

And in ‘Dispatch’ daily,

And news ‘Daily Maily’,

We’ve heard of these Russians, but much news we lack,

For somehow or other,

We cannot discover,

Where Kitchener’s put them, and we’re on the rack.

And it’s really most horrid,

The way we are worried,

And humbugged and bothered and kept in a stew,

So drop, sir, this mystery,

For you know ’tis history,

These hairy-faced Russians stopped two hours at Crewe.

Pray say where you’ve put them,

Or shipped them or shut them,

In England, France, Belgium, or in Timbuctoo,

For ’tis tantalizing,

Thus daily surmising,

Come, dear Mr Censor, pray tell us, now do.

T. Clayton

This is the round-eyed German Herr,

Still found in England here and there.

His ears are long, and I’ll be bound

That they can catch the slightest sound.

He’s timid and elusive too;

But mischief he contrives to do,

And so of him we should beware,

And first must catch – then cook our Herr!

St John Hamund

‘Down with the Teutons!’ rose the people’s cry;

‘Who said that England’s honour was for sale?’

Myself, I hunted out the local spy,

Tore down his pole and cast him into jail.

‘An English barber now,’ said I, ‘or none!

This thatch shall never fall before a Hun!’

And all was well until that fateful morn

When, truss’d for shearing in a stranger’s shop,

‘Be careful, please,’ I said, ‘I want it shorn

Close round the ears, but leave it long on top’;

And, thrilling with a pleasant pride of race,

I watched the fellow’s homely British face.

An optimist he was. ‘Those German brutes,

They’ll get wot for. You mark my words,’ he said,

And dragged great chunks of hair out by the roots,

Forgetting mine was not a German head.

‘Oh, yes, they’ll get it in the neck,’ said he,

And gaily emphasized his prophecy.

Ah me, that ruthless Britisher! He scored

His parallel entrenchments round and round

My quivering scalp. ‘Invade us ’ere?’ he roared;

‘Not bloomin’ likely! Not on British ground!’

His nimble scissors left a row of scars

To point the prowess of our gallant Tars.

I bore it without movement, save a start

Induc’d by one shrewd gash behind the ear.

With silent fortitude I watch’d him part

The ruin on my skull. And then a tear,

A fat, round tear, well’d up from either eye –

O traitorous tribute to the local spy!

R.A. Thorold

Ten little Germans marching in a line,

Thought they’d march thro’ Belgium – then there were nine;

Nine little Germans gave vent to their hate,

Tommy A. got on their track – then there were eight;