OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/My Mate
### My Mate

I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,  And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. (Look out there, lad! That sniper — 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;  'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.) Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,  To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,  Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot — but it's blood.
And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.  'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals,  And even there we 'ad no disagree. For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best,  I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest,  I even stood god-farther to the kid.
So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?"  "Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im. 'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go,  ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim). Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell,  But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread. We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle,  And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.
Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took?  I've only got meself, 'e stands for three. I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook;  'E always was a better man than me. 'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark,  And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark,  When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.
'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die.  'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky,  And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead,  And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand: The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and zip! like that — 'e's dead,  Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.
There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun,  But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate. You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done  Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate. It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim;  Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid, Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im,  To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.
# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/On the Wire
### On the Wire

O God, take the sun from the sky!  It's burning me, scorching me up. God, can't You hear my cry?  Water! A poor, little cup! It's laughing, the cursed sun!  See how it swells and swells Fierce as a hundred hells!  God, will it never have done? It's searing the flesh on my bones;  It's beating with hammers red My eyeballs into my head;  It's parching my very moans. See! It's the size of the sky,  And the sky is a torrent of fire, Foaming on me as I lie  Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Of the thousands that wheeze and hum  Heedlessly over my head, Why can't a bullet come,  Pierce to my brain instead, Blacken forever my brain,  Finish forever my pain? Here in the hellish glare  Why must I suffer so? Is it God doesn't care?  Is it God doesn't know? Oh, to be killed outright,  Clean in the clash of the fight! That is a golden death,  That is a boon; but this . . . Drawing an anguished breath  Under a hot abyss, Under a stooping sky  Of seething, sulphurous fire, Scorching me up as I lie  Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Hasten, O God, Thy night!  Hide from my eyes the sight Of the body I stare and see  Shattered so hideously. I can't believe that it's mine.  My body was white and sweet, Flawless and fair and fine,  Shapely from head to feet; Oh no, I can never be  The thing of horror I see Under the rifle fire,  Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Of night and of death I dream;  Night that will bring me peace, Coolness and starry gleam,  Stillness and death's release: Ages and ages have passed, —  Lo! it is night at last. Night! but the guns roar out.  Night! but the hosts attack. Red and yellow and black  Geysers of doom upspout. Silver and green and red  Star-shells hover and spread. Yonder off to the right  Fiercely kindles the fight; Roaring near and more near,  Thundering now in my ear; Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark!  Someone moans in the dark. I hear, but I cannot see,  I hear as the rest retire, Someone is caught like me,  Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Again the shuddering dawn,  Weird and wicked and wan; Again, and I've not yet gone.  The man whom I heard is dead. Now I can understand:  A bullet hole in his head, A pistol gripped in his hand.  Well, he knew what to do, — Yes, and now I know too. . . .
Hark the resentful guns!  Oh, how thankful am I To think my beloved ones  Will never know how I die! I've suffered more than my share; I'm shattered beyond repair; I've fought like a man the fight, And now I demand the right (God! how his fingers cling!) To do without shame this thing. Good! there's a bullet still;  Now I'm ready to fire; Blame me, God, if You will,  Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/My Foe
### My Foe

A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks;
Gurr! You cochon! Stand and fight! Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face! Here amid the wreck and rout Let us grip and have it out! Here where ruins rock and reel Let us settle, steel to steel! Look! Our houses, how they spit Sparks from brands your friends have lit. See! Our gutters running red, Bright with blood your friends have shed. Hark! Amid your drunken brawl How our maidens shriek and call. Why have you come here alone, To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? Come to ravish, come to loot, Come to play the ghoulish brute. Ah, indeed! We well are met, Bayonet to bayonet. God! I never killed a man: Now I'll do the best I can. Rip you to the evil heart, Laugh to see the life-blood start. Bah! You swine! I hate you so. Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . .
There! I've done it. See! He lies Death a-staring from his eyes; Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, How it's horrible, is Death! Plucking at his bloody lips With his trembling finger-tips; Choking in a dreadful way As if he would something say In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . Oh, how horrible Death is!
How I wish that he would die! So unnerved, unmanned am I. See! His twitching face is white! See! His bubbling blood is bright. Why do I not shout with glee? What strange spell is over me? There he lies; the fight was fair; Let me toss my cap in air. Why am I so silent? Why Do I pray for him to die? Where is all my vengeful joy? Ugh! My foe is but a boy.
I'd a brother of his age Perished in the war's red rage; Perished in the Ypres hell: Oh, I loved my brother well. And though I be hard and grim, How it makes me think of him! He had just such flaxen hair As the lad that's lying there. Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . God! How horrible war is!
I have reason to be gay: There is one less foe to slay. I have reason to be glad: Yet — my foe is such a lad. So I watch in dull amaze, See his dying eyes a-glaze, See his face grow glorified, See his hands outstretched and wide To that bit of ruined wall Where the flames have ceased to crawl, Where amid the crumbling bricks Hangs a blackebed crucifix.
Now, oh now I understand. Quick I press it in his hand, Close his feeble finger-tips, Hold it to his faltering lips. As I watch his welling blood I would stem it if I could. God of Pity, let him live! God of Love, forgive, forgive.
His face looked strangely, as he died, Like that of One they crucified. And in the pocket of his coat I found a letter; thus he wrote: The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, I'm wondering can God be here? To-night amid the drunken brawl I saw a Cross hung on a wall; I'll seek it now, and there alone Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . .
Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone. No other saw but God alone; Yet how can I forget the sight Of that face so woeful white! Dead I kissed him as he lay, Knelt by him and tried to pray; Left him lying there at rest, Crucifix upon his breast.
Not for him the pity be. Ye who pity, pity me, Crawling now the ways I trod, Blood-guilty in sight of God.
# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/My Prisoner
### My Prisoner

We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, Fightin' fierce as fire because  It was 'im or me as must be downed; 'E was twice as big as me; I was 'arf the weight of 'e;  We was like a terryer and a 'ound.
'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf! Why, it fairly made me laugh,  'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound. Couldn't fight for monkey nuts. Soon I gets 'im in the guts,  There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground.
In I goes to finish up the job. Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; Speakin' English good as me: "'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e;  "Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" "Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; "But — yer knows the reason why:  If we pokes our noses out we're dead.
"Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and (As a gent like you must understand), If I 'olds you longer 'ere, Wiv yer pals so werry near,  It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; If I lets yer go away, Why, you'll fight another day:  See the sitooation I am in.
"Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel Of a 'alf a yard o' steel,  I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . 'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck,  Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead."
'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile! 'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while! Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme, Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme:  Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods. Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ."  "In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds."
Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . . Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do, And to think this is the end!" "'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend,  Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. Picters, statoos, is that why You should be let off to die?  That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers."
Once again 'e seems ter think awhile. Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: "Why, no, sir, it's not the best; There's a locket next me breast,  Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. That's the best I've done," says 'e. "That's me darter, aged three. . . ."  "Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too."
Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride Me own little Mary Jane. Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine,  And we talks as friendly as can be; Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, 'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day,  Wonders — 'ow would eE 'Aave treated me?
# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/My Job
### My Job

I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh;  At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye,  And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before;  And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more:  At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . dyin'.
I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now.  I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, I've been in many 'ot old `do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow,  But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers.  They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears,  And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well. — Your werry lovin' Micky."
I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there.  I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care,  If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed;  I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . .  It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . a decent job in dyin'.
# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/My Bay'nit
### My Bay'nit

When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit  And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it,  So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war. For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly  Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, 'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly  Part of me outfit every time.
Left, right, Hans and Fritz!  Goose step, keep up yer mits!  Oh my, Ain't it a shyme!  Part of me outfit every time.
At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy;  I've used it to open a bully beef can; For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy;  For any old thing but for stickin' a man. 'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you  Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you!  Part of me outfit every time.
Lor, yus; don't they look glad?  Right O! 'Owl Kamerad!  Oh my, always the syme! Part of me outfit every time.
I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit,  Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; I'm fairly down-'earted — 'ow can yer explain it?  I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders,  Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; And I uses me bay'nit — to slit their suspenders —  Part of me outfit every time.
Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag!  'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag!  Oh my, ain't it a gyme!  Part of me outfit every time.
# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/L'Envoi
### L'Envoi

My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready,  My word-battalions marching verse by verse; Here stanza-companies are none too steady;  There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse. And as in marshalled order I review them,  My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray, My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them  Immortal visions of an epic day.
It seems I'm in a giant bowling-alley;  The hidden heavies round me crash and thud; A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley;  The rising sun is like a ball of blood. Along the road the "fantassins" are pouring,  And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . . Then back again I see the red tide pouring,  Along the reeking road from Hebuterne.
And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven,  The Hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight; When suddenly the rosy air is riven —  A "coal-box" blots the "boyou" on my right. Or else to evil Carnoy I am stealing,  Past sentinels who hail with bated breath; Where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing  May hint our mission in that zone of death.
I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows  The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle; Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shadows,  And Thiepval's château empty as a shell. Down Albert's riven streets the moon is leering;  The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray; And all the road from Hamel I am hearing  The silver rage of bugles over Bray.
Once more within the sky's deep sapphire hollow  I sight a swimming Taube, a fairy thing; I watch the angry shell flame flash and follow  In feather puffs that flick a tilted wing; And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror's flashing;  The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; The batteries are rancorously crashing,  And life is just as full as it can hold.
Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving!  Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! Let us be glad we lived you, still believing  The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross. Let us be sure amid these seething passions,  The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor: The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions  Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War. . . . Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell  Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well.
# Royal Naval Biography/Camilleri, John

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JOSEPH CAMILLERI, Esq. [Commander.]
We first find serving as midshipman on board the Active frigate. Captain (now Sir James A.) Gordon, stationed in the Adriatic, where he was employed in her boats at the capture and destruction of three gun-vessels and twenty-eight sail of merchantmen, chiefly laden with grain for the French troops at Ragusa, July 27th, 1811. He was made a lieutenant on the 25th Feb. 1815; appointed to the Dover 28, flag-ship of Rear-Admiral (now Sir Robert W.) Otway, on the Leith station) Oct. 20th, 1819; and advanced to the rank of commander Jan. 1st, 1829.
# Royal Naval Biography/Cadman, George

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GEORGE CADMAN, Esq. [Post-Captain of 1809.]
This officer’s commission as a Commander bears date April 24, 1782. On the 20th June following, being then in the Defiance armed ship, he captured the Dutch brig Zeuze, mounting 16 long 6-pounders and one 18 pounder, with a complement of 113 men. The action between these vessels took place near Portland, and lasted about two hours; during which the enemy had 21 men killed, and 17, including the 1st and 2d Captains, wounded, the greater part of them dangerously. The Defiance was armed with 4-pounders, and had no more than 68 persons on board, of whom only one was killed and another wounded. Captain Cadman obtained post rank Oct. 25, 1809.
# Royal Naval Biography/Caiger, Herbert

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HERBERT CAIGER, Esq. [Commander.]
Was made a lieutenant on the 13th Dec. 1800; and “conducted himself like a brave officer and good seaman,” while serving as second of the Tartar frigate. Captain G. E. B. Bettesworth, in action with a Danish flotilla, near Bergen, in Norway, May 15th, 1808. His next appointment was, ​Aug, 25th, 1809, to the Unicorn 32, in which ship he continued, under Captains Alexander R. Kerr, George Burgoyne Salt, and Samuel G. Pechell, on the Channel and North Sea stations, until paid off about the end of Sept. 1814. During that period, he assisted at the capture of the French privateers Gascon and Miquelonnaise, the former of 16 guns and 113 men, the latter of 18 guns and 130 men; the letter of marque Espérance (formerly H.M. 22-gun ship Laurel), with a valuable cargo of East India produce; and the American letter of marque Hebe (formerly H.M. schooner Laura) of 2 guns and 15 men. He was promoted to the rank of commander May 11th, 1827.
# Royal Naval Biography/Campbell, Alexander

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ALEXANDER CAMPBELL, Esq. [Post-Captain of 1804.]
This officer, a grand nephew of the late Earl of Crawford, was made a Lieutenant in 1797; and had the good fortune to escape the melancholy fate of his shipmates in the Queen Charlotte, when burnt near Leghorn, Mar. 17, 1800. He received the Turkish gold medal for his subsequent services in Egypt; and was successively advanced to the rank of Commander and Post-Captain, by his patron, the late Admiral Viscount Keith. At the renewal of the war with France, in 1803, he obtained the command of the Amethyst frigate; and in June 1804, he was dismissed from that ship, and placed at the bottom of the list of Captains, by the sentence of a Court-Martial, held at Sheerness, for misconduct in an action with four Dutch vessels, off the coast of Norway. He died at Bath, Mar. 15, 1825.
# Royal Naval Biography/Campbell, Alexander (b)

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ALEXANDER CAMPBELL, Esq. [Captain of 1828.]
Was made a lieutenant in Sept. 1806; and commanded the boats of the Pilot sloop, Captain John Toup Nicolas, at the capture and destruction of numerous small vessels, on the coasts of Calabria, between April 1811, and July 1812. On the 4th of June, 1813, he assisted in capturing a French armed brig, with a valuable cargo, from Marseilles bound to Tunis.
This officer’s next appointment was. May 17th, 1815, to the Shark sloop, bearing the flag of Rear-Admiral John E. Douglas, at Jamaica; where he was promoted to the command of the same vessel, Oct. 6th following. In Aug. 1825, he commissioned the Cyréne 20, fitting out for the East India station; from whence he brought home the Bombay, a new 84, Sept. 12th, 1823. His advancement to the rank of captain took place, April 17, 1823.
Agents.– Sir F. Ommanney and Son.
* ↑ See Suppl. Part IV. pp. 60–64, and dele the bottom line of p. 62.
* ↑ See id. p. 65.
# Royal Naval Biography/Wray, Luke Henry

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LUKE HENRY WRAY, Esq. [Commander.]
Was made a lieutenant on the 14th April, 1805. We first find him serving on board the Port Mahon sloop, Captain Samuel Chambers, who, in June 1806, made a report as follows to the commander-in-chief on the Jamaica station:–
“Sir,– A Spanish armed brig was yesterday (25th), chased by H.M. sloop Port Mahon into the intricate harbour of Banes, which is defended by a hif^h tower mounted with two heavy guns. At 9 p.m. the boats were dispatched under the command of Lieutenant John Marshall, assisted by Lieutenant Wray, to get her out. This morning, at one o’clock, she was boarded under a heavy fire of great guns and small arms from the vessel and battery, (to which she was moored by a hawser,) and carried. Much difficulty attended getting her out, as she grounded within pistol-shot of the tower, from which several shots struck her. She proves to be the Spanish letter-of-marque San Josef, armed with one long 18-pounder on a pivot amidships, four 12-pounder carronades, and two long 4-pounders, with swivels, pikes, musketry, and thirty men, from Havannah bound to Campeachy, laden with brandy, dry goods, &c. It is very gratifying for me to add, that although several of the oars were broke, and the boats damaged by shot whilst rowing to the attack, yet not a man was hurt. I hope. Sir, you will conceive that the capture of this vessel, situated and defended as above recited, was fully adequate to the force employed, and that it reflects great credit on the officers and seamen employed. I have the honor to be, &c.
(Signed)“Samuel Chambers.”
“To Vice-Admiral J. R. Dacres, &c. &c.”
On the 1st Nov. 1821, Mr. Wray was appointed senior lieutenant of the Andromache frigate, fitting out for the broad pendant of Commodore Nourse, on whose demise, Sept. 4th, 1824, he appointed himself to the command of that ship, then ​returning to Mauritius from the eastern coast of Africa. His promotion to the rank of commander took place Dec. 20th, 1824; and he appears to have arrived at Portsmouth in the l’Espiegle sloop, from the Cape of Good Hope station, Dec. 16th, 1825.
# Royal Naval Biography/Wright, William Elliot

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WILLIAM ELLIOT WRIGHT, Esq. [Commander.]
Obtained his first commission on the 11th Dec. 1807; and subsequently served under Captains Pulteney Malcolm and Sir Michael Seymour, in the Donegal and Hannibal 74’s. We next find him flag-lieutenant to the former distinguished officer, by whom he was appointed acting commander of the Griffon sloop, at St. Helena, Sept. 20th, 1810. On his return from that station, after having been confirmed by commission dated Aug. 20, 1817, he was tried by court-martial on a charge of smuggling fifty-three yards of crape and various other contraband articles, during the Griffon’s stay at Portsmouth. The Court, after a long deliberation, sentenced him to be dismissed His Majesty’s service. On this painful occasion, Rear-Admiral Sir Pultcney Malcolm and Sir Michael Seymour, the latter of whom happened to preside at the trial, gave him a most excellent and honorable character, as an officer and a gentleman; but the Court, under the circumstances of the case, and agreeably to the articles of war, felt bound to deliver such a sentence. He was restored to his former rank, however, in 1819.