# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/Wilfrid J. Halliday

WILFRID J. HALLIDAY
Private, 13th Battalion, West Yorks. Regiment
The Grave
THEY dug his grave by lantern light, A nameless German boy: A remnant from that hurried flight, Lost, wounded, left in hapless plight For carrion to destroy. They thought him dead at first until They felt the heart's slow beat: So calm he lay, serene and still, It seemed a butchery to kill An innocence so sweet.
A movement of his lips, maybe To call his mother there: A tear, a smile of victory— Then easeful death proclaimed him free, Free from a tyrant's care.
Somewhere a mother droops and sighs For tidings long delayed: Somewhere a sister mourns and cries For him who in that cold grave lies, Dug by the foeman's spade.
The Awakening
O I have watched God's fairest things And heard sweet nature's melody; Have felt the thrill that Pity brings And sailed in tears its weed-strewn sea. As blithe as any summer's day I leapt for joy to suck the sweet Of sunshine, dingle, meadow'd hay, And all the treasures at my feet.
But now tho' banished far from these, In grosser places turned and tossed, I feel a purer, nobler ease, New heather ways have now been crossed. A something steals upon my breast Whene'er I watch night's jewels shine: It whispers "He has seen the test, And thou wast faithful—Joy be thine!"
O Pride of Pride! how couldst thou see That inner ray when half thy gaze Was fixed on self, not pure and free, But dimly peering through a haze? And then I threw the bonds aside, For thee, My Country, call'd to fight. Forlorn, forgotten, self-defied, 1 know that I have seen the light.
The Red Cross
'MID the might of battle's roar And the groans of maimed and dying; 'Mid the welter and the gore And the hiss of bullets flying, Like an angel, calm and brave Goes the Red Cross Knight to save.
'Mid the deadly shrapnel hail And the sniper's sullen firing; 'Mid the carnage and the wail Of the stricken and expiring, Like a mother, calm and brave Goes the Red Cross Knight to save.
'Mid the sleet and driving rain And the biting, stinging frost; 'Mid the mangled and the slain And the terrors of the lost, Like a hero, calm and brave Goes the Red Cross Knight to save.
What of him do writers tell? What reward for sacrifice? Nought but "Truly ye did well," And in that his guerdon lies. But the wounded, knowing, crave For your love. Go forth to save.
The Gleam
I SEE, I feel, I sometimes know And penetrate the soul of things. I've sipped of streams that sometimes flow From mystic, unimagined things.
For one brief moment have I strayed In pastures clothed in sparkling dew, And fed on fruits the gods have laid Of wondrous taste and goodly hue.
Heaven judge my soul by that brief bliss And pity me that I am lost So oft in clay, and seem to miss The path that beckoning gleam has crossed.
To-day
NO longer art, but artifice, No unrefracted ray: No streamings from the infinite, No rough, inspired way: No motive selfless, free from taint, But "will it pay?"
​The charlatan ascends the rock Where prophets stood of yore; The shallow cynic dons the garb That Trust and Honour wore, And viperous scorn stands sentinel Beside Truth's half-shut door.
Say, Spirit, what this England needs. Is it a common foe? Must we through tears be led to smiles, To happiness through woe? Shall blood of slaughtered sons buy grace? Then, England, let it flow.