Rhymes of a Red Cross Man

<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"></SPAN></p> <br/> <h2> Milking Time </h2> <p>There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;<br/> There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;<br/> There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,<br/> And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain.<br/> For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;<br/> For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall;<br/> And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming<br/> That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.<br/> <br/> Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here;<br/> And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;<br/> The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,<br/> And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.<br/> And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb,<br/> And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,<br/> And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing,<br/> And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.<br/> <br/> Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown;<br/> And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;<br/> And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,<br/> And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.<br/> And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;<br/> And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too;<br/> And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry<br/> Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.<br/> <br/> So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;<br/> And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;<br/> And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,<br/> And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be.<br/> And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed?<br/> And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist;<br/> And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying<br/> That Yvonne is long delaying . . . <i>GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!</i><br/> <br/> A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;<br/> That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;<br/> That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches<br/> Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.<br/> Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;<br/> And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime;<br/> And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather<br/> We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . .<br/> (English voice, months later):&mdash;<br/> "<i>OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME.</i>"<br/></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />