# More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Walter Lightowler Wilkinson

WALTER LIGHTOWLER WILKINSON
Lieut., 8th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders
(Killed on Vimy Ridge, April 9, 1917)
A Lament from the Dead
PEACE! Vex us not: we are Dead, We are the Dead for England slain. (O England and the English Spring, The English Spring, the Spring-tide rain: Ah, God, dear God, in England now!) . . . Peace! Vex us not: we are the Dead; The snows of Death are on our brow: Peace! Vex us not!
Brothers, the footfalls of the year (The Maiden month's in England now!) . . . I feel them pass above my head: Alas, they echo on my heart! (Ah, God, dear God, but England now!) . . . Peace! vex me not, for I am dead; The snows of Death are on my brow: Peace! Vex me not!
​Brothers, and I—I taste again, Again I taste the Wine of Spring. (O Wine of Spring and Bread of Love, O lips that kiss and mouths that sing: Love and Spring in England now!) . . . Peace! Vex me not, but pass above: Sweet English Love, fleet English Spring— Pass! Vex me not!
Brothers, my brothers, I pray you—hark! I hear a song upon the wing, Upon the silver wing of morn: It is—dear God! it is the lark— It is the lark above the corn, The fledgling corn of England's Spring! . . . Ah! pity thou my wearied heart: Cease! Vex me not!
Brothers, I beg you be at rest, Be quite at rest for England's sake: The flowerful hours in England now Sing low your sleep to English ears: And would ye have your sorrows wake The Mother's heart to further tears? . . . Nay! be at peace, her loyal dead Sleep! Vex her not!
The Wayside Burial
"THEY'RE bringing in their recent dead—their recent dead! I see the shoulder badge: a "Southern crush." How small he looks—(O damn that singing thrush!) Not give foot five from boots to battered head! . . . Give him a kindly burial, my friends,— So much is due, when some such loyal life ends! "For Country!" . . . Ay, and so our brave do die: Comrade unknown, good rest to you!—Good-bye!
They're bringing their recent dead! No pomp, no show: A dingy khaki crowd—his friends, his own. I, too, would like—(God, how that wind does moan!)— To be laid down by friends: it's sweetest so! A young life, as I take it; just a lad— (How cold it blows; and that grey sky, how sad!)— And yet: "For Country"—so a man should die: Comrade unknown, good rest to you!—Good-bye!
They're burying their dead!—I wonder now: A wife?—or mother? Mother it must be— In some trim home that fronts the English sea. (A sea-coast country: that the badges show.) ​And she?—I sense her grief, I feel her tears! "This, then, the garnered harvest of my years!" And he? . . . "For Country, dear, a man must die!" Comrade unknown, good rest to you!—Good-bye!
It's reeded: he is buried! Comrade, sleep! A wooden cross at your brave head will stand. A cross of wood? A Calvary!—The Land For whose sake you laid down sweet life, will keep Watch, lad, and ward that none may bring to shame. That Name for which you died! . . . "What's in a name"?— England shall answer! You will hear Her cry: "Well done, my own! my son—good rest: Good-bye!"
B.E.F., France, 4.3.17.
At Last Post
COME home!—Come home! The winds are at rest in the restful trees; At rest are the waves of the sundown seas; And home—they're home— The wearied hearts and the broken lives— At home! At ease!
B.E.F., France.
Night in War Time
NIGHT and night's menace: Death hath forged a dart Of every moment's pause and stealthy pass: Blind Terror reigns: darkly, as in a glass, Man's wondering Soul beholds his fearful Heart, And questions, and is shaken: and, apart, Light Chance, the harlot-goddess, holding Mass, Scatters her favours broadcast on the grass As might a drunkard spill his wares in mart!
Time and sweet Order have forsaken men, So near Eternal seems the Night's foul sway: We ask of Life: "Has Chaos come again, With Ruin, and Confusion, and Decay?" Yet slowly, surely darkness dies: and then, Out of the deep night's menace, dawns the Day!
B.E.F., France, January 25th, 1917.
WM. BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND.