All that spring I was in hospital.
Nevertheless, I was sufficiently recovered to take part in the Champagne battle in the fall of that year, and to “carry on” during the following winter. It was at Verdun I got my first wound.
In the spring of 1917 I again served with my Corps; but on the entry of the United States into the War I joined the army of my country. In the Argonne I had my left arm shot away.
As far as time and health permitted, I kept a record of these years, and also wrote much verse. All this, however, has disappeared under circumstances into which there is no need to enter here. The loss was a cruel one, almost more so than that of my arm; for I have neither the heart nor the power to rewrite this material.
And now, in default of something better, I have bundled together this manuscript, and have added to it a few more verses, written in hospitals. Let it represent me. If I can find a publisher for it, tant mieux. If not, I will print it at my own cost, and anyone who cares for a copy can write to me —
STEPHEN POORE,
12 bis, RUE DES PETITS MOINEAUX,
PARIS.
Michael
“There’s something in your face, Michael, I’ve seen it all the day;
There’s something quare that wasn’t there when first ye wint away.…”
“It’s just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right,
That puts the stiffinin’ in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight.…”
“There’s something in your eyes, Michael, an’ how they stare and stare —
You’re lookin’ at me now me boy, as if I wasn’t there.…”
“It’s just the things I’ve seen, mother, the sights that come and come,
A bit o’ broken, bloody pulp that used to be a chum.…”
“There’s something on your heart, Michael, that makes ye wake at night,
And often when I hear ye moan, I trimble in me fright.…”
“It’s just a man I killed, mother, a mother’s son like me;
It seems he’s always hauntin’ me, he’ll never let me be.…”
“But maybe he was bad, Michael, maybe it was right
To kill the inimy you hate in fair and honest fight.…”
“I did not hate at all, mother; he never did me harm;
I think he was a lad like me, who worked upon a farm.…”
“And what’s it all about, Michael; why did you have to go,
A quiet, peaceful lad like you, and we were happy so? …”
“It’s thim that’s up above, mother, tit’s thim that sits an’ rules;
We’ve got to fight the wars they make, it’s us as are the fools.…”
“And what will be the end, Michael, and what’s the use, I say,
Of fightin’ if whoever wins it’s us that’s got to pay? …”
“Oh, it will be the end, mother, when lads like him and me,
That sweat to feed the ones above, decide that we’ll be free.…”
“And when will that day come, Michael, and when will fightin’ cease,
And simple folks may till their soil and live and love in peace? …”
“It’s coming soon and soon, mother, it’s nearer every day,
When only men who work and sweat will have a word to say;
When all who earn their honest bread in every land and soil
Will claim the Brotherhood of Man, the Comradeship of Toil;
When we, the Workers, all demand: ‘What are we fighting for?’ …
Then, then we’ll end that stupid crime, that devil’s madness — War.”
The Ballad of Salvation Bill
’Twas in the bleary middle of the hard-boiled Arctic night,
I was lonesome as a loon, so if you can,
Imagine my emotions of amazement and delight
When I bumped into that Missionary Man.
He was lying lost and dying in the moon’s unholy leer,
And frozen from his toes to fingertips;
The famished wolf pack ringed him; but he didn’t seem to fear,
As he pressed his ice-bound Bible to his lips.
’Twas the limit of my trapline, with the cabin miles away,
And every step was like a stab of pain;
But I packed him like a baby, and I nursed him night and day,
Till I got him back to health and strength again.
So there we were, benighted in the shadow of the Pole,
And he might have proved a priceless little pard,
If he hadn’t got to worrying about my blessed soul,
And a-quotin’ me his Bible by the yard.
Now there was I, a husky guy, whose god was Nicotine.
With a “coffin nail” a fixture in my mug;
I rolled them in the pages of a pulpwood magazine,
And hacked them with my jackknife from the plug.
For, oh to know the bliss and glow that good tobacco means,
Just live among the everlasting ice.…
So judge my horror when I found my stock of magazines
Was chewed into a chowder by the mice.
A woeful week went by and not a single pill I had,
Me that would smoke my forty in a day;
I sighed, I swore, I strode the floor; I felt I would go mad:
The gospel-plugger watched me in dismay.
The brow was wet, my teeth were set, my nerves were rasping raw;
And
