Lionel Haweis
In league, for the sake of his message,
With the shadow of death.
'Take it down-not much to remember,
And—you're the right sort—
You're white—you'll see that it gets there
For it's devilish short.
They got me-but our fellows were coming,
And didn't they melt!—
They got me—but dropped me-then shot me
Here—under the belt.
'Get it down, but Lord! there's the missus!
Oh, well I don't know—
She's a brick . . . end to end of the country—
Let it go-let it go!
I want all the boys—the Dominion—
To pile on the coals;
I want it—to scorch in their faces
And burn in their souls!
'And tell 'em—oh! tell 'em to hurry
And share in the brunt
We're bearing—we want every jack man
Of'em all at the front . . .
That's all—get it down like a good 'un—
Let me down by the head,—
By God! but I wouldn't have missed it . . .'
And he sinks on the bed.
But the vision already is shrinking
As the patriot dies;
And the people get onto the side-walk
With a blink in their eyes
'That's a home-thrust,' cries one, 'from our fellows
Who are bearing the brunt!
That Allen's a corker, and—damn it!
To the Front! To the Front!'
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