Voices of Silence (9 page)

Where is Elizabeth, whose eyes were argent?

How like a home
her
hospital must be,

Winnie’s a ‘Waac’, and bound to be a Sergeant

Judging by how she dominated me

(Only I hope she never stoops

To talk like that to lady troops):

And Maud, who dropped so many soups –

What does she do with bombs and T.N.T.?

Our car stands starving in the dusty garage,

But Mabel drives a whacking Limousine;

And when they sprinkle us with bits of barrage

We know that much of it was made by Jean;

Our income slowly disappears,

While they get more than Brigadiers –

No wonder now the agent sneers,

‘You
can’t
get girls to come to Turnham Green.’

Do they look back and hope that we are happy,

With no one left to fuss about our food;

And when some foreman is extremely snappy

Recall with tears my courtlier attitude?

Rather, I ween, with mirthful hoots

They think of Master cleaning boots,

And thank their stars, the little brutes,

They bear no more the yoke of housemaid-hood.

And what will happen when the Bosch goes under,

And all these women fling their swords away?

Will the dear maids come back to us, I wonder?

Shall I be able to afford their pay?

And will they want Munitions rates?

Ah, who can read the ruthless Fates?

Meanwhile we wash the dirty plates

And do our whack as willingly as they.

A.P. Herbert

Bye, Baby Bunting,

Daddy’s gone Hun-hunting,

Brother’s in the Navy,

Sister’s making gravy,

Uncle’s working on the land

Aunt is a munition hand,

Grandpa minds the hens and cocks,

Grandmamma is knitting socks,

Mummy’s starting work afresh,

And has to leave you at the crèche.

Pansy ran a Knitting Party.

Oh! the things they knat.

Pansy’s meetings never ended

And results were simply splendid,

I can swear to that,

Since for weeks we used the socks she sent

To take the place of wire entanglement.

Hampden Gordon

Knitted in the tram-car,

Knitted in the street,

Knitted by the fireside,

Knitted in the heat;

Knitted in Australia,

Where the Wattle grows,

Sent to you in France dear,

Just to warm your toes.

Knitted by the seaside,

Knitted in the train,

Knitted in the sunshine,

Knitted in the rain.

Knitted here and knitted there

With the glad refrain,

May the one who wears them

Come back to us again.

The Flag-Day Girl is dressed in white

In sunshine or in sleet.

She is a most attractive sight

When viewed across the street;

But don’t you go too near that charming seller

Unless your name if Ritz P. Rockëfeller.

Hampden Gordon

Buy a Flag!

Give your copper, give your silver, give your gold if you can:

To help the wounded horses is to help the cause of man –

Buy a Flag! Buy a Flag! Buy a Flag!

Buy a Flag!

They, created to a freedom wide and wingèd as the wind,

Freely serve the higher brother of the master-hand and mind –

Buy a Flag! Buy a Flag!

Buy a Flag!

Man has broken them to harness, but they give their wills to serve,

Responsive to a kindliness in every thew and nerve –

Buy a Flag! Buy a Flag!

Buy a Flag!

They are suffering in our service, yet are patient, brave, and true;

Come, do your best for the horses, they have done so much for you! –

Buy a Flag! Buy a Flag!

Buy a Flag!

Give your copper, give your silver, give your gold if you can:

By their strength and noble patience they have served the cause of man –

Buy a Flag! Buy a Flag! Buy a Flag!

Jessie Annie Anderson

I’ve never seen the Dardanelles,

I’ve never been to France,

I’ve never nursed in Egypt,

Nor recruited in Penzance.

I’ve never helped in Africa

To polish off De Wet,

I’ve never even tried to raise

A ‘Maisie’ Bed as yet.

I do not write to papers, lines

On Berlin on the Spree,

And suggestively white feathers,

Do not emanate from me.

I’ve never warbled more than twice

At territorial teas,

I haven’t stumped up overmuch

To send the navy peas.

I do not often mend the hose

Of Bantams in distress,

(In fact I wish my own required

The darning-needle less.)

But if you think I’m conscienceless

You certainly are wrong,

For one department’s left in which

I always come out strong.

And though I truly am not one

As generally brags,

I ‘do my bit’ – oh, cursèd fate,

Selling those plaguey flags

For:

There’s the country’s Indispensable

Who snubs you with a stare,

And the gallant Major-Gen’ral

With a pulverising glare.

There’s the over-dressed young person

Who’s ‘afraid she’s got no change’,

And the lady with the powerful tongue

Who thinks it
very
strange

They haven’t had a flag-day yet

For (Blank) – could I arrange?

There’s the worthy maiden-auntie

Whose flag’s been left at home,

And the rather stingy gentleman

Who’s almost heard to groan.

There’s the naughty little villain

Who thinks it very nice

To wear his flag well out of sight

And hear you ask him twice,

And the ‘strong and silent’ personage

Who freezes you to ice.

And though it sometimes happens

That amidst the gloom may flash

A patriotic Christian who

Doles smiles out with his cash,

When all is said and done I doubt

I’d better wear a gag

Next time I’m pounced upon to vend

The everlasting flag.

The Women’s Volunteer Reserve

Parade the streets and do deserve

Official recognition.

Myself, I strive to recognise

My Aunt in military guise,

Amazing apparition!

But up till now I’ve met with no success.

I wish I could remember her address.

*   *   *

I want my puttees back.

Hampden Gordon

I’m happy from the ankles up

How happy I can’t tell,

But, from the ankles down, alas!

I do not feel so well.

A frieze of sticking-plaster winds

Around each wounded heel,

And words of mine can not describe

The feelings that they feel.

But from the ankles up my joy

Is glowing and complete.

How sad it is that we must have

Those gentle things called feet!

I. Grindlay

What have you done in the War, my son?

Look in my face and say!

You have grasped no gun, nor a risk have run,

In the heart of the red-hot fray.

You have ne’er a foe on the earth below,

Nor a scar on that rose-leaf skin;

So what have you done in the War, my son?

And how have you helped us win?

What have you done in the War, my son?

Oh, you came on a darksome day,

And you turned a heart from the coward’s part

When it all but had crept away:

For the Hope and Cheer that can persevere

Were your gift to that soul brought low;

And a Faith, half-dead, raised its faltering head

At the sound of your triumph-crow.

What have you done in the War, my son?

You have grown as the lilies do;

You have made sad eyes scan the far blue skies

And rejoice in the sun with you;

You have day by day by the desert-way

Been a well-spring of bubbling joy:

Say, what further task has the Realm to ask

At the hands of my Baby-Boy?

Oh, guard them well, their heritage is goodly,

They have a line of splendour to uphold,

Theirs are the names that shall be traced in glory

On stainless pages with a pen of gold.

Oh, guard them well, their forebears are so wondrous,

And they so young, so tender and so small,

God’s angels o’er them smile in blessings ever,

God from His Heaven looks down and loves them all.

Oh, guard them well, such storm-clouds dim their childhood,

Such dark forebodings fill each mother’s breast,

And yet they bloom like flowers amid the greyness,

And in their smile the weary hearts find rest.

Oh, guard them well, for them the far horizon

Holds such vast promise of a brighter day,

Of a new world – united – re-created,

With strife and enmity all swept away.

Oh, guard them well – yours is the work unceasing,

Yours is the vigil to be watched at home,

Yours the great guardianship that tireless ever

Holds these dear hosts ’gainst dangers that may roam.

Women of England – keepers of rich treasure –

Guide well these little feet in case they fall;

To you, with you, the children’s weal is trusted,

While God from Heaven looks down and loves them all.

Augusta Hancock

Father’s in the City, he is fifty-five and fat,

I think it is a pity they didn’t think of that.

He’s really rather clever

Though you’d never think it – never,

So he volunteered; he thought it was his duty,

And he’s got a situation

In the Service of the Nation

Running errands for a ‘Specialist in Beauty!’

Uncle Tom’s an Architect, an F.R.I.B.A.,

And his profession, I expect, is not much catch to-day;

But he thought it was a rum thing

If he couldn’t tackle something,

So he filled a form and sent it in on Friday.

But he’s not just overjoyed with

Messrs Smith, whom he’s employed with,

For his job’s to sweep the shop and keep it tidy!

Uncle Jim, an Engineer, and rather proud of it,

Made up his mind to volunteer (‘man must do his bit’);

But I fancy, poor old chappie,

He is far from being happy

In a Government Department full of flappers,

Where from 10 to 6 he lingers

Getting ink upon his fingers,

Writing names upon interminable wrappers!

Cousin Fred’s a ne’er-do-well, his strong point’s not his brain,

He’s never punctual at a meal and cannot catch a train;

But he sent an application

With his usual hesitation

And the answer made the others gnash their molars,

For he’s got a well-paid billet,

Though I don’t know how he’ll fill it,

And his title is
CONTROLLER OF CONTROLLERS
!