VI.— OUT OF TRENCHES: THE BARN, TWILIGHT

In the raftered barn we lie,

Sprawl, scrawl postcards, laugh and speak —

Just mere men a trifle weary,

Worn in heart, a trifle weak:

Because alway

At close of day

Thought steals to England far away....

“Alf!” “O ay.”

“Gi’ us a tune, mate.” “Well, wot say?”

“Swipe‘ The Policeman's‘ Oliday’....”

“Tiddle-iddle-um-tum,

Tum-TUM.”

Sprawling on my aching back,

Think I nought; but I am glad —

Dear, rare lads of pick and pack!

Aie me too! I'm sad.... I'm sad:

Some must die

( Maybe I ):

O pray it take them suddenly!

“Bill!” “Wot ho!”

“Concertina: let it go —

‘ If you were the Only Girl.’” “Cheero!”

“If you were the Only Girl.”

Damn.‘ Abide with Me....’ Not now!—

Well... if you must: just your way.

It racks me till the tears nigh flow.

The tune see-saws. I turn, I pray

Behind my hand,

Shaken, unmanned,

In groans that God may understand:

Miracle!

“Let, let them all survive this hell.”

Hear‘ Trumpeter, what are you sounding?’ swell.

( My God! I guess indeed too well:

The broken heart, eyes front, proud knell! )

Grant but mine sound with their farewell.

“It's the Last Post I'm sounding.”