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
Fighting Mac
A Life Tragedy A pistol shot rings round and round the world; In pitiful defeat a warrior lies. A last defiance to dark Death is hurled, A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.
The Battle Of The Bulge
This year an ocean trip I took, and as I am a Scot And like to get my money’s worth I never missed a meal. In spite of Neptune’s nastiness I ate an awful
Forward
I’ve tinkered at my bits of rhymes In weary, woeful, waiting times; In doleful hours of battle-din, Ere yet they brought the wounded in; Through vigils of the fateful night, In lousy barns by
The Comforter
As I sat by my baby’s bed That’s open to the sky, There fluttered round and round my head A radiant butterfly. And as I wept of hearts that ache The saddest in the
The Quitter
When you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle To cock your revolver
Secretary
My Master is a man of might With manners like a hog; He makes me slave from morn to night And treats me like a dog. He thinks there’s nothing on this earth His
Last Look
What would I choose to see when I To this bright earth shall bid good-bye? When fades forever from my sight The world I’ve loved with long delight? What would I pray to look
Romance
In Paris on a morn of May I sent a radio transalantic To catch a steamer on the way, But oh the postal fuss was frantic; They sent me here, they sent me there,
Adventure
Out of the wood my White Knight came: His eyes were bright with a bitter flame, As I clung to his stirrup leather; For I was only a dreaming lad, Yet oh, what a
Erico
Oh darling Eric, why did you For my fond affection sue, And then with surgeons artful aid Transform yourself into a maid? So now in petticoats you go And people call you Erico. Sometimes
Portent
Courage mes gars: La guerre est proche. I plant my little plot of beans, I sit beneath my cyprus tree; I do not know what trouble means, I cultivate tranquillity. . . But as
Innocence
The height of wisdom seems to me That of a child; So let my ageing vision be Serene and mild. The depth of folly, I aver, Is to fish deep In that dark pool
A Snifter
After working hard all day In the office, How much worse on homeward way My old cough is! Barney’s Bar is gaily lit, Let me stop there; Just to buck me up a bit
My Cross
I wrote a poem to the moon But no one noticed it; Although I hoped that late or soon Someone would praise a bit Its purity and grace forlone, Its beauty tulip-cool… But as